


Fabric Scraps and Unraveled Threads

by Lywinis



Category: Kingsman (Movies)
Genre: F/M, M/M, Multi, Other, REFERENCES ABOUND, Short fills, Tumblr Prompt, Various settings, not necessarily canon to other works
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-10
Updated: 2019-02-04
Packaged: 2019-03-03 01:18:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 23
Words: 35,649
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13330428
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lywinis/pseuds/Lywinis
Summary: Assorted tumblr fills, from various universes, that don't necessarily fit in the main 'verses or their timelines. Bits and bobs, discarded pieces and things that don't fit. Here they are in a quilt of things that might have been, things that could be, and things that never were but are fun to think about. Current pairings are listed, though the fills are heavily Merlahad and Percilot, the others will show up from time to time.Any fills here are intended to stand alone, and may not fit into the canon for any stories or the universes they pull from (for various reasons).





	1. Familiar (Merlahad, Florist AU)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [bearfeathers](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bearfeathers/gifts).

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kiss Meme: 11. when one stops the kiss to whisper “I’m sorry, are you sure you-” and they answer by kissing them more

Merlin sat back on his heels and wiped his brow. There was so much more to be done with the roses, but really, he’d been working with them for six months and the hardy little things were steadily improving. A mixture of good food and a new soil recipe had seen most of them flourishing where they’d been despondent in the fall.

He took a drink from the jug of water by his side before he rose to move to the next bush around Mister Hart’s garden. Harry was away on business for the next few days, so Merlin had popped by to make sure the new meters in the greenhouse were working properly, and had gotten distracted with making sure the roses had enough food.

Still, if Harry’s garden had been a haven before, this spring was shaping the place into an almost paradise. Merlin’s green thumb and the automatic feeders he’d installed had turned around some of the sickly plants, and now everything seemed fuller and greener.

“I didn’t realize you made unsolicited house calls,” said a voice behind him. Merlin, not expecting company, startled, dropping his water jug in the grass. He turned to find Harry smiling at him, hands in his trouser pockets.

He hadn’t even noticed the other man coming up behind him, which was saying something because Mister Pickle was currently wriggling around his feet for the attention he knew Merlin would give him. Merlin stooped and stroked the little cairn terrier, running his hands down the fellow’s wiry little back until the dog got his fill and darted off to sniff about the rose bushes. He rose, dusting off his hands and faced Harry.

“I didn’t realize you were home today,” Merlin murmured. “I, ah, was just testing the feeders for accuracy on their feed distribution. I can go if you need—”

“No, I don’t need you to go,” Harry said, almost blurting it. Merlin snapped his jaw shut, flustered.

They’d been awkward around each other from the first, a great expectation settling between them that neither one seemed to want to breach. Merlin knew that it was one-sided, at least on his end; he had been carefully trying to prune back the attraction to Harry since they’d met face to face the first time. Harry was snarky, sometimes rude in his blunt assessment of everyone, but he was also surprisingly caring. He’d listened to Merlin when he’d suggested he cut back the wild onion that grew in his yard, simply because it might be hurting Mister Pickle.

Merlin hated to admit it, but pruning back the attraction to Harry was proving difficult, like taking hand scissors to an acre of kudzu covered farmland.

Harry shifted, stepping closer. “You’ve done a lot with the roses over the winter.”

Merlin nodded, taking the innocuous sentence as a compliment on his skill. “Aye. It was a lot of work, but it was enjoyable, in its own right.”

“And why is that, might I ask?” Merlin turned his head, catching Harry watching him from the corner of his eye.

“Your gardens are unique, in the sheer number of species you’ve managed to cultivate,” Merlin said with a shrug. Harry smiled, though he seemed to shrink into himself. “This spring will be good for your property values. If you list the house any time soon, I’d suggest taking photos the first weeks of summer.”

“If I list the house?” Harry asked. “What gave you that impression?”

“You were talking with James at the shop,” Merlin said, shrugging. “I overheard you both talking about moving a lot for your respective careers. You said something about liking being mobile.”

“When I was younger,” Harry said. He chuckled softly. “You _do_ tend to jump to conclusions.”

“Not really,” Merlin said, turning his head back to the gardens. “It was just a suggestion.”

He didn’t say it out loud, but he was glad to find that Harry’s musings had just been that, a thinking out loud sort of situation. He’d felt a queer sense of loss, as though he would be losing something important, at the thought of Harry moving away to pursue more rare species of butterflies.

“Were you worried?” Harry asked. They were standing shoulder to shoulder, the dance between them having gone on far too long for Merlin to notice when Harry closed the gap anymore. Harry was a buzz of electricity beneath Merlin’s skin, the frequency the only thing alerting Merlin to Harry’s nearness.

“About what?” Merlin asked, turning his head back to regard Harry.

“About me leaving,” Harry said. “I should have thought you’d have a more desperate plea to make me stay rather than just sprucing up the garden.”

Merlin chuckled, saying nothing for a long moment. Of course Harry _would_ cut to the heart of things with a callous joke. “No one is saying you can’t visit us in London.”

“I’m rather more fond of the time you spend here,” Harry said. Merlin blinked, surprised, and turned to find Harry watching him, his usually carefully composed expression gone. Instead, it was replaced by a strange vulnerability, as though Merlin had taken his little hand trowel and dug a furrow straight through all of the carefully composed walls that Harry liked to throw up to block Merlin from figuring him out.

“Are you?” Merlin asked, fishing for what this meant.

“I am,” Harry said, pulling his hands from his pockets. “To the point that if I were to sell the house, I don’t quite know what I’d do with my afternoons anymore.”

“Harry—” Merlin’s quiet word was interrupted by Harry’s long, elegant hand clasping the back of his neck, long legs moving Harry into Merlin’s space with the smooth surety of someone who had been there hundreds of times before. Merlin almost broke into hysterical giggles at the thought. Harry had never been this close, never been this earnest, raw heat searing him to the soles of his feet as Harry closed the gap until there was nothing left.

Harry’s mouth slanted over Merlin’s and took the surprised puff of breath from him as an offering, the kiss soft, chaste, and utterly too much for Merlin to process all at once. Harry pulled back, as though to judge Merlin’s reaction, his brown eyes soft and warm as he cupped Merlin’s jaw.

“I’m sorry,” Merlin said, his eyes darting to Harry’s mouth as his brain tried to catch up with everything else. “Are you sure you—”

Harry answered him by kissing him again, melding their mouths together. Merlin opened beneath his attention, the slide of Harry’s long fingers adding to the soft, eager heat of the other man’s mouth as Harry brushed his tongue along Merlin’s in a way that was somehow both filthy and reverent all at once. Merlin gave a soft noise, one that Harry swallowed eagerly, and he didn’t realize his hands had begun to slide into Harry’s hair until Harry’s own satisfied rumble sounded against his lips as he tugged softly on salt-and-pepper curls.

They broke apart, starry-eyed and out of breath, and Harry nuzzled at Merlin’s cheek, keeping them close as though he were afraid that Merlin would disappear on him like fog through his fingers.

“I’m sure,” Harry said. “I’ve been sure for months, I just—”

“Didn’t want things to change,” Merlin whispered. Harry startled, the emotion clear in the way his body stiffened and then relaxed as Merlin ran a soothing hand down his neck. “I know.”

“I meant to do this differently,” Harry said. “I don’t want you to think—”

“Harry,” Merlin said, huffing in exasperation. “Shut up and kiss me again, you daft peacock.”

Harry did, and Merlin decided he liked the taste of Harry’s smile against his lips. Very much.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Have another fill, Constant Readers. I'm collecting them here because I like to go back and read them, and sometimes tumblr likes to eat posts, so I figured having a central aggregate isn't so bad. You can find more of the Florist!AU here: [In Bloom](http://archiveofourown.org/works/13017087/chapters/29770185)
> 
> These fills aren't necessarily going to be canon, but please feel free to visit their main universes any time. You can also shoot me prompts to your hearts' content at lywinis.tumblr.com as well.
> 
> As always, comments and kudos are appreciated, so feel free to leave those, as well!


	2. Brittle (Percilot, Hogwarts AU)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some things can't be fixed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Dialogue Prompts](http://lywinis.tumblr.com/post/167892892782/50-dialogue-prompts): "I never stood a chance, did I?" - Percilot

**[Hogwarts Grounds - 1975]**

“Martin!”

Martin looked around, squinting as he realized the bush was hissing at him. It shook and whispered his name again. Martin glanced around, seeing the other Slytherins moving for the greenhouses, but he still had a few minutes to get to his lesson. He moved closer, only to be tugged insistently behind the bush.

“What is it?” He sighed, seeing James Spencer standing there, giving him a wary smile as the wind tousled his hair. “I’m going to be late for Herbology.”

“I just…I want you to come back to our study group,” James said.

“You know I can’t do that,” Martin said patiently. “For one, Harry would likely kick my head in on sight for what I called Merlin.”

“You can apologize,” James said, but stilled when Martin started to shake his head. His mouth worked, despair starting to war with hope on his face. Martin hated seeing this part. He’d seen it so much since the school year had started.

“Secondly, I don’t want to come back. I study well enough on my own. And I have my own group now.” He shrugged, watching James chew his lip. Now the theatrics would come, and Martin was well-versed in them by now. Every few weeks, James would show up, chipping away at Martin’s resolve. Martin would rebuff him, but James would come back, stubborn to the last as a true Hufflepuff.

But some things couldn’t be recovered. He’d ensured it. The word  _mudblood_  wasn’t used often, but Martin spitting it at Merlin had been calculated. There were reasons piled upon reasons why ‘just apologizing’ would never do, and Martin didn’t have the time in the space between classes to explain them all. Nor could he articulate some of them if he’d tried.

“I don’t want to come back,” Martin said again, hoping James would get it through his thick skull.

“Martin—”

“James, I’m not going to ask again. If you come to see me again, I’ll have to do something you won’t like.”

“Oh, but you’ll like it, will you?” James said. His voice was thick, as though he were fighting back tears. “You and Malfoy and your nasty new friends, the ones who whisper curses and try to beat us all bloody, you’d all like it if you caught poor, stupid James Spencer alone, wouldn’t you?”

Martin paused. “I’ve never considered you stupid.”

“Oh, but you must now,” James snapped. “Chasing after a Slytherin because I know he’s not like the others. Hoping against hope that you’ll just…come back. Because you want to. Because I  ** _love_**  you. Is that what you wanted to hear?”

It wasn’t. Martin’s mouth went dry, his tongue feeling too large, his breath stopping for a brief moment. It was just the sort of revelation that would have ruined this a year prior, but it was too late now. He’d already cast the die.

_Alea Iacta Est._

“I never stood a chance, did I?” James continued, searching Martin’s face. “I was just someone you could whittle the time away with until you clawed your way into the richer circle. You never wanted me. Or Harry or Merlin. You just wanted what all Slytherins want.”

“James.” Martin hated the edge of desperation in his voice as he cast his gaze about for his classmates. They were approaching the greenhouses now, chattering in a group of green and silver. No one had noticed he was gone yet.

“Tell me I’m wrong, then!” James said, his voice bordering on the hysterical, dragging Martin’s attention back. “Prove me wrong. Come to the Room and apologize, because you know it’s the first step. And it’s hard. It’s so hard, but I know you can do it because—”

Martin’s hand rose, of its own accord, striking with a speed that frightened even him. He could feel the sting in his palm, and James staggered back, his hand to his cheek where Martin had slapped him. It felt as though a chasm had opened beneath their feet and between them, a gulf separating them. James’s eyes were wide and liquid, his mouth working as Martin straightened himself, adjusting his robes.

“As if I wanted to come back,” he forced himself to say, keeping his voice even, almost bored. “Go play with your mudblood and his monster. I don’t want anything to do with you. Stay away from me.”

He turned on his heel, striding towards the greenhouse double-time, his bag clutched in his hands like a lifeline. He left James behind, staring after him, and Martin swore he could feel James’s gaze until he shut the greenhouse doors behind him.

* * *

“How did it go?” Merlin asked, before looking up and catching sight of James, his cheek bruised and his eyes downcast. He closed the door to the room of requirement and flopped down into a beanbag that littered their particular study chamber. Harry was at quidditch practice; he’d be gone for another hour. It was just Merlin and James.

“It’s over,” James said, leaning his head back. There were no mournful sighs, just a quiet resignation. “He doesn’t…”

“Did he hurt you?”

“Not…I don’t think he meant—oh, you mean my face. No.” James absently touched the mark on his face. “I told him I loved him. Stupid, really.”

Merlin rose, settling in the beanbag next to James. “I don’t think so.”

“Ta, Merlin.” James closed his eyes.

“I know it hurts.” Merlin felt James lean onto his shoulder. “But…you did what you felt you had to do, and that was brave.”

“Can you read to me?” James asked, changing the subject. Merlin frowned, but he obliged, using his wand to levitate over one of the books he’d been working on reading aloud with them. If it would distract James now, Merlin would oblige.

It was really all he could do.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oof. I figured I better slot this one in before the other one, so it doesn't seem strange.


	3. Home is Wherever I'm With You (Percilot, Hogwarts AU)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kissing prompts -- 15. a gentle “i love you” whispered after a soft kiss, followed immediately by a stronger kiss

James found Martin where he was sulking, just on the edge of camp. The former Slytherin was sitting on a log, holding his bandaged arm and staring out into the woods, as though the shifting leaves and shadows would hold some sort of answers for him. They’d been on the run since just after their graduation, the arrival of Voldemort meaning that there had been little choice in the matter.

While not necessarily true, it felt like Martin’s entire peerage were chasing them, the Death Eaters wearing many familiar names. They’d tormented Merlin from before James’s arrival to Hogwarts, and it only seemed to get worse when Merlin found unlikely friends in them all.

Martin had only recently rejoined their inner circle; James didn’t want to think about how much Martin had tried to shoulder alone by infiltrating the Slytherins and trying to warn them away from Merlin, Harry and James. It had been a long bout of anger, hurt, and so many conflicting emotions between the four of them that frankly, it made James’s head hurt.

Just after their Christmas break during their seventh year, Martin had revealed what he’d been doing since their fifth year. The former Slytherin had suffered a lot, both at the hands of his peers and at the hands of his father – the latter the one responsible for the bandage on Martin’s left forearm. Wrapped in gauze from elbow to wrist, Merlin had done his best to remove the Dark Mark forced on Martin by Mortimer Gainsborough. The wound would take quite a bit to heal, despite the healing salve Merlin used. Magic couldn’t counter the Dark Mark that was inflicted; Martin would always bear the scars.

Martin had come to them in a panic, seeking out people he’d driven away in his sheer terror. It had all come to light at last – Martin’s avoidance, his anger, his use of the slur that still had Harry giving him a brutal side-eye at times. James was hardly one to forgive and forget, but he was more attuned to the stricken look in Martin’s eyes as he’d said it the first time. That look had always been in Martin’s eyes, under the surface – and it didn’t take a talented Legilimens like James to see that Martin was going through the motions that were expected of him as a Slytherin.

James hadn’t wanted to believe it then, either.

Some might think the former Hufflepuff soft-hearted. So be it. James had never been afraid to show his emotions, and he felt honestly and fully. If that made him soft hearted, the times he was hurt were more than outweighed by the times he had found true fulfilment in being honest with the people around him. Harry and Merlin were his best friends, and Martin—

James was of the opinion that Martin would be lost without him. Not in the sense that Martin would be listless and lonely, no—Martin would have been swallowed up by the black cloud that had swallowed so many of his peers. The peers that now chased them as they apparated from one campsite to the next to keep them from finally enacting that last bit of revenge for the Forbidden Forest in their seventh years, when Martin had turned the tide and revealed himself their ally.

There would have been no one to turn to when the newly christened Death Eaters had come for him, forcing him to join their ranks, to don a mask with his father and take the Mark. He would have been lost either way.

But he’d found himself, and then found them, and the group was the stronger for it, something James was sure all of them knew. Martin was one of the most brilliant wizards of his age, next to Merlin. They were all talented in their own ways, but there was something reassuring about seeing Martin’s pale profile lying on the cot opposite his across the fire.

And so it was that James plunked himself down on the log next to Martin, his scuffed trainers bumping against Martin’s as he looked out into the woods with him.

“My watch isn’t over for another hour,” Martin said.

“I know,” James said.

“So why are you out here? It’s warmer in the tent.” It was true; the temperatures had started dropping with the leaves changing, and there was a nip in the air already in the late afternoon. James could feel the bite as he shrugged further into his jacket.

“You’re not like him,” James said instead of answering him.

“I told you not to do that,” Martin snapped, cutting his gaze away.

“It’s kind of hard to keep it to myself when I can hear you across the room with it,” James replied. “You’re _not_ anything like him.”

Martin swallowed hard, his throat working. His left arm flexed, and he hissed as the bandages pulled against his slowly healing wound. James scooted closer, wrapping an arm around Martin’s shoulders. Martin went stiff, but after a moment he slouched against James, sighing softly.

“How can you be sure?” Martin asked.

“I’m sure,” James replied.

“I hit you,” Martin said. “Back in—”

“I remember,” James said.

“Just like him.”

“Not like him,” James countered. He pointed at Martin’s bandage. “You’re not anything like him. You wouldn’t do this to yourself, much less your son.”

“How can you be sure?” Martin asked again. He sounded like a broken record, his voice gone scratchy with unshed sorrow.

“Because I know you,” James said. “Remember? I’ve been in your head.”

“Legilimency is an imprecise and unreliable art,” Martin replied. James just smiled. Long ago, that might have gotten a rise out of him, baited him into biting back, but he realized now that Martin’s words were a deflection.

“Okay,” James said slowly. “How about this?”

He knew he’d caught Martin by surprise, based on the other man’s sharp inhale when James leaned over, pressing his lips against Martin’s and cupping his face. He brushed his fingers along Martin’s jaw, feeling the scrape of stubble where Martin had missed with the razor, the soft exhale as Martin leaned into James’s kiss. Martin’s eyes drifted closed, and they remained so as James pulled back, their mingled breathing the only other sound in the quiet clearing.

“I love you,” James whispered, nuzzling against Martin’s lips. “He didn’t. He’s your father but he doesn’t love you. I do. So believe me when I say you’re nothing like him, because I wouldn’t feel like you do when we kissed if you were.”

“I told you to stop that,” Martin whispered, and hauled James close. His kiss was hungrier, far more demanding, but James opened all the same, letting Martin dictate the pace and meeting him in the middle. Martin groaned softly, his hand winding in James’s sweater as their mouths met, over and over and a torrent of feeling spilled over. James couldn’t tell if it was his or Martin’s anymore, and by the dazed and shaken look on Martin’s face when they pulled back, Martin was just as overwhelmed.

“Stay with us,” James said. He cupped Martin’s cheeks, his thumbs brushing at the wetness just under Martin’s eyes. “Let me take care of you. You’ve been on your own for so long and you never really got that when I say ‘I love you’ I mean it.”

“You’ve been telling me you loved me since the middle of our third year,” Martin said, though he pressed his cheek against James’s palm all the same.

“It’s not my fault I knew before you did,” James teased him.

Martin’s eyes drifted shut as James kissed him again, something softer and sweeter this time.

“Welcome home, Martin,” James murmured against his lips. The only indication Martin heard him was the hitch of his breath and the tightening of the hand wrapped in his sweater.

* * *

“Well, it’s about time,” Harry groused, standing at the entrance to the tent. He turned away, moving and returning to sit beside Merlin on the cot. The former Ravenclaw was looking thin and worn from the work he’d put into concealing their campsite and removing Martin’s Dark Mark, but he still accepted the press of Harry’s lips against his own and curled closer against his chest as the former Gryffindor joined him on their cot.

“It was only a matter of time,” Merlin reminded him, yawning against his chest.

“True,” Harry pressed a kiss to Merlin’s forehead. “But it took a damn long time.”

“Says the man who waited until sixth year to tell me how he felt,” Merlin said.

Harry snorted. “Says the man who was content to sit on the sidelines forever.”

“Mm. Well, we’re not really great at this,” Merlin conceded. “But…we’ll get there.”

Yes, Harry thought. They would.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I never said the Potterverse wasn't angsty as all fuck, but it is. :)
> 
> Don't even try it, Bearfeathers, you literally asked for this.


	4. Evidence (Merlahad, Photographs and Memories 'verse)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eggsy is not as unobservant as people like to think he is.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Dialogue Prompts](http://lywinis.tumblr.com/post/167892892782/50-dialogue-prompts): "I don't owe you an explanation." (Harry and Eggsy)

“Before you go on forever about recruitment techniques for new prospects, I have a question,” Eggsy said, leaning forward in his chair as Harry regarded him from behind his desk. “What the  ** _fuck_**  is  _that_?”

Harry blinked at him, confusion flickering across his face, until he realized Eggsy was pointing at his neck, where the dark purple of a love bite was visible just above his collar, right on his pulse point. Eggsy knew very well what it was—he was no stranger to hanky-panky, but seeing it on Harry was like a whole new world of revelation was opened to him.

He remembered, suddenly, standing in the jet and demanding Merlin hand over his machine gun.

 _No, this is **mine**._  Apparently, possessiveness extended to more than just Merlin’s guns and his clipboard.

“Is there something I should know about?” Eggsy asked, a shite-eating grin spreading across his face. “Are we gonna have to have a shotgun wedding?”

“I don’t owe you an explanation,” Harry said, one hand covering his neck while a brilliant red flush crawled up from his collar to his ears and cheeks. “Are you quite finished?”

“Yeah, I’ll just ask Merlin later.”

Harry sputtered. “ _Galahad_!”

Eggsy was already texting Roxy with his spectacles. This was too good.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All the little tidbits I've been filling are gonna go here, so don't be surprised if you see stuff you may have read before on tumblr. I'm just collecting things.


	5. Celebration (Merlahad, Photographs and Memories 'verse)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's almost Harry's birthday.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [The Signs of Affection Meme](https://lywinis.tumblr.com/post/167751165667/signs-of-affection-meme) \-- 6. A Whisper

“Galahad, are you awake?” Merlin’s voice in Harry’s ear brings him back to alertness. He swallows, touching his fingertips to his spectacles to reopen his comm channels.

“I’m here, Merlin,” he says, though the raspiness of his voice belies his exhaustion. He’s been holed up in this abandoned sewer for two days, filthy and almost out of ammunition, waiting on the wariness of his pursuers to die down so that Merlin can arrange extraction. Thankfully he’s not terribly injured, just bumped and bruised and tired and his stomach might be trying to gnaw his backbone, as he hadn’t packed any of the rations he usually did on covert ops – this had started as a charity gala and ended as a double homicide for two biological weapons smugglers. He’d seen his opportunity when he’d followed them back to their base, leading buyers out to show them their wares (nothing like meeting someone out in the middle of nowhere to buy a new neurological agent, it’s cliche enough that Harry wants to roll his eyes, but he knows better by now).

While he’d managed to take out his targets, he hadn’t reckoned on there being backup at the camp; an unforeseen visit from a local businessman (read: their funding) had kicked the hornet’s nest as surely as if Harry had walked in there and shot them point blank. Even now, he had no doubt they were carefully searching the boltholes that Harry had camouflaged as his own, decoys to lead them away from the ruins of the town they’d taken as their own by force. An old Roman aqueduct that has caved in in several places serves as his hiding spot now, and he’s mostly silent as he waits, with the occasional murmured answer to Merlin being the exception.

To say it’s been a trying couple of days is an understatement, but Harry’s certainly had worse. Exctraction would mean the team was reasonably sure they could neutralize the agent, and Harry’s waiting on Morgana’s certainty she could nullify whatever horror these idiots were wanting to wreak on the rest of the world. Harry is content to wait.

Harry’s already shed his velvet tuxedo jacket, the plating good for protection but not for his rising temperature; days in the sewer system have taught him that while the temperatures rose, even the shade was warmer than he’d like. He stretches out his long legs in the cramped and dusty space. He rests his head against the crumbling stone wall, glad to have Merlin’s voice in his ear.

“It’s midnight here, and you should know–Happy Birthday.” Merlin cleared his throat. “And also…your ride will be there in an hour.”

“Ta, Merlin,” he said, a smile cracking his face for the first time in days. “I’ll see you at home.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not all of these are going to be 1300 word monster fills, but I like them all the same. Also, it seems like hubris to title the P&M verse the main verse, even if it's true.


	6. Satisfaction (Percilot, Photographs and Memories 'verse)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> James has bed head and a full heart.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [The Signs of Affection Meme](https://lywinis.tumblr.com/post/167751165667/signs-of-affection-meme) \- 8. A Love Bite

James stretches languidly, his limbs brushing against his partner. He feels deliciously sore, and Martin asleep beside him is always quite a treat. While not exactly under the same scrutiny that Merlin and Galahad were, there was still an air of discretion that must be observed when they went home to separate flats.

James could rarely bear to stay away for more than a few days at a time, however, and made his excuses under the cover of darkness, slipping in with his key and into bed.

Now, however, Martin’s arm is thrown over his waist, his partner’s soft breathing tickling his chest as James assesses.

He’s not going to be able to walk properly for at least half a day without conscious effort on his part to hide the limp. He’s bruised on his hips, fingerprints embedded in his skin like Martin wanted to be a part of him rather than his partner. He has no doubt he’s going to find bitemarks on his thighs and stomach; Martin liked paying attention to him in new and exciting ways.

While not possessive (Martin would be the first to assure you, in his blunt fashion, that if James didn’t want to be here or be monogamous with Martin, he wouldn’t be), it had been hungry. Like Martin hadn’t been able to get enough of James’s breathy cries in the darkness, wringing out as many as he could before relenting and driving into James with an intensity that left him breathless.

Now all that’s left is the delcious ache of terribly good sex, and it leaves him feeling debauched, well-loved, and utterly wanted.

That’s really all he can ask of life, and as he glances down at Martin’s messy bed-head, his partner’s long lashes fanned out against the hard rises of his cheeks, he amends the statement in his head.

Martin is really all he wants in life. In this or any other. The admission is sappy, he knows it, but he holds it in his palm like a particularly delicate piece of porcelain. One day, he’s sure, he’ll pay for this secrecy, this sneaking around, but…he’d never regret it.

Besides, Martin has a trip to Bruges in two days, and he’s being dispatched to Argentina. Might as well live like it’s your last day on earth, right?

He presses a kiss to the crown of Martin’s head, then allows himself to drift off, safe and warm in the knowledge that right here is exactly where he wants to be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not sorry. Ehehehe.


	7. Drowsing (Merlahad, Photographs and Memories 'verse)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Harry, come and fetch your husband."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous asked: but imagine: Harry being away and Merlin working too much without taking breaks and the second Harry gets back Morgana calls him and is like: Can you please come and get your husband? He has been here for three days straight, i doubt he has slept and he hasn't shaved so he looks like Stanley Tucci. Do something!

Harry strode through Central’s halls with purpose, neatly avoiding the techs scurrying hither and yon. While Morgana’s message had been urgent, there was still discretion to be observed and he moved around them like a predator moving through the herd, seeking the office locked deep within the heart of the underground network.

He was tired, the trip to Nice a short hop but a longer mission, tailing and dismantling a human trafficking ring with ties to Russia. Percival and Lancelot were handling the cleanup in Smolensk, and his part of the mission was finished. Now he needed to see to his…to Merlin.

While they were still navigating what this thing was between them, there was still danger in it. Merlin could still be punished – and so could he, but to a far lesser (and much less vindictive) extent.

Merlin was slumped over his desk, typing while squinting at the screen. He hadn’t shaved; his stubble had come in fine and Harry remembered running his hands through it–a rare treat for the usually clean-shaven wizard. Dark circles under his eyes indicated that he’d been here for a while; it was likely that Merlin had been glued to his chair for as long as Harry had been deployed in France.

Harry knew he’d been in no better hands. Now it was time for him to care for those hands and the man attached to them.

“Merlin,” Harry said, by way of warning as he closed Central’s entry door and threw the lock. There would be a good minute of warning before anyone else approached, and Harry took their privacy to move toward Merlin’s seat and place his hand upon his partner’s neck.

“Welcome home, Galahad,” Merlin said, still typing. He brought a cup of tea to his lips, and Harry could tell by the way his nose wrinkled as he sipped that it had long gone cold.

“Nimue has taken over for Percival and Lancelot,” Harry said softly. “What else have you to finish?”

“The initial reports were wrong, our estimates were off,” Merlin replied. “There are links to the Congo, to Venezuela, and to Greece.”

“Then we will regroup and root them out,” Harry replied. “For now, though, it’s time to stop.”

“I’ve more work to–” Merlin replied, gesturing at the screen, but as he turned to look at Harry, he softened. Harry had removed his spectacles before entering Central’s core. This one place was private, far from prying eyes. This was the one place that Merlin could truly call his own and Harry respected that. “Harry.”

“Come on, Merlin,” Harry said, cupping his partner’s jaw. “Let’s get you home, Morgana’s orders.”

“Mum always was a worrier,” Merlin said.

“No, she said you’ve been an absolute nutter, running about half-asleep looking like Stanley Tucci on a bender.”

“She didn’t,” Merlin groused.

“She commanded I come get my husband,” Harry said, and he felt the beginnings of Merlin’s smile. They couldn’t be married, but…they might as well be, as close as they were, thick as thieves and twice as troublesome to Kingsman’s resident physician. “Come on then, up you get.”

Merlin sagged against Harry almost immediately, and Harry clucked his tongue at the man he loved. He took the tea to the small sink of the kitchenette Merlin had installed, dumping the cold tea and setting the mug to be washed for later. He got Merlin bundled into his coat, feeling the weariness in his own bones taking its toll, and he got them to Merlin’s private exit. It led down to the tube station that exited the estate, leading to the shop.

“Your place or mine?” Merlin asked, the question interrupted by a yawn as Harry helped him fold himself into the seat of the little bullet transport.

“Yours, I should think,” Harry said. “That way you can have a shower and shave after you’ve slept.”

“You as well,” Merlin mumbled, eyes already drooping as Harry took a seat beside him.

“Yes, me as well. Might conserve water later,” Harry purred, earning him a sleepy chuckle. “Arthur is away on business, as are his hounds Gawain and Gehraint. I thought it only fitting that the mice should play while the cat’s away.”

“Mm,” Merlin hummed. “Well, then I will consider myself a lucky mouse.”

Harry linked their fingers as the bullet train shot them towards London. It wasn’t the openness he would have liked, but being able to do this with Merlin, even covertly…

Harry wouldn’t trade a thing. He sent a text to Morgana, informing her that he was bundling Merlin off to bed, and she replied with a lengthy lecture about him getting himself into bed as well. As Merlin rested his head against Harry’s shoulder, he smiled.

He wouldn’t have trouble following the doctor’s orders…just this once.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I seem to write way more soft boys in fills than I do in actual published fic. Huh.


	8. Assumptions (Merlahad, Photographs and Memories 'verse)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When you assume, you make an ass out of you and me, and 'u' comes before 'me'.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Dialogue Prompts](http://lywinis.tumblr.com/post/167892892782/50-dialogue-prompts) \- "You're in love with her."

“You’re in love with her.”

It wasn’t a question. Merlin looked up from where he was typing, his mug of tea halfway to his lips. Tequila leaned on the doorjamb, hands stuffed in his jeans’ pockets as though he needed something to keep him from throwing a punch.

Merlin blinked, taking in the hard set of the Statesman’s mouth, the way the toothpick Lee was chewing on switched from one side to another as though it were a nervous tic. Green eyes were guarded, sullen.

There was a moment that stretched between them, Merlin taking in all of this information, and he tilted his head at a man who once dumped liquor on his lap to light him on fire if he wouldn’t talk. Inhaling slowly, Merlin turned his chair to face the American, putting his hands in his lap.

“What makes you think that?” he asked.

“You work well together,” Lee said, jerking a hand from his pocket to gesture at the room where Harry was being held. Ginger Ale was working with him, going through a battery of questions to help him regain his memories. Merlin didn’t look. Instead, he focused on the man before him. “She talks about stuff only you seem to get. I ain’t seen her smile like she does with you.”

Merlin felt his lips quirk, but refrained from smiling fully. “Ginger Ale is a lovely woman. She deserves someone who can give her everything she needs in a relationship.”

“So it’s true.”

“Let me finish,” Merlin said, irritation at being interrupted while Lee jumped to conclusions smoothed by the fact that this seemed to be important to the cowboy. “She deserves all that and more, but it’s not something I can give to her.”

“Well, why the hell not?” Tequila demanded, angry now. His brows drew down in a scowl, and he moved his hands from his pockets to hook his thumbs in his belt loops, restraining himself with a visible effort.

“Because I’m gay,” Merlin said, using the bluntness to shock Tequila into silence so he could finish his thought. “And I don’t believe in happy endings. Too jaded after V-Day.”

“What the hell,” Tequila breathed.

Merlin just shrugged, looking into the room where Ginger was talking quietly with Harry, sitting shoulder to shoulder with him. Soft brown curls fell into his eyes, and Harry smiled as Ginger tried to cheer him up after the exhausting battery of questions. They were no closer to unlocking Galahad.

No closer to unlocking Harry as Merlin had known him.

“I’m…sorry,” Tequila said after a moment of silent contemplation. “I went and put my damn foot in my mouth again.”

“To the ankle,” Merlin agreed. “But…perhaps you should tell her.”

“Maybe,” he said. “Figure she could do better’n me.”

“She deserves the dignity of being able to choose that for herself,” Merlin replied, turning back to his console. “They always do. But people like the lovely Ginger Ale don’t come along often, so you might want to get a move on, before you end up my age and regretting what might have been.”

“I—” Tequila scratched the back of his neck. “Okay. And…thanks.”

“Anytime,” Merlin replied, mind already back on what he was working on as the door closed behind Tequila.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really dig Tequila and Ginger Ale together for reasons that will be revealed probably a lot later.


	9. Don't Ever Mean It (Lucy Sheffield/Thomas Brampton, Photographs and Memories 'verse)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mistletoe can be deadly if you eat it.
> 
> But a kiss can be even deadlier if you mean it.
> 
> _[Batman Returns, 1992]_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Dialogue Prompts](http://lywinis.tumblr.com/post/167892892782/50-dialogue-prompts) \- "Lie to me, then."

**[Toulouse, France - 1963]**

Lancelot walked their new doctor to her hotel room, their arms linked. They moved like a tired, but happy couple, their steps in time and his hand over the one tucked in the crook of his elbow. Now and then, he stole a glance at the woman beside him.

Lucy Sheffield, code named Morgana. Quite the surprise, he’d discovered, not that he was put out by the revelation.

The first of her kind, at least for Kingsman, she was a vision in her grey sheath dress and her curled hair, black as a raven’s wing, gently brushing her shoulders in an almost lazy up-do. Even with the night’s events, there wasn’t a hair out of place, Morgana the face of poise and elegance as she strode with him down the opulent hallway.

It had gone as it should have, the whole mission a success. Lucy’s part was simple; administer the antidote to the party guests before the scientist throwing the party could activate the poison they were consuming. She’d performed well under pressure, slipping each patient a pill with the counteragent, murmuring instructions to each of the frightened hostages.

It had been a farce, the party; the scientist had been a prominent and respected researcher, until he’d been rejected. His tenure and accolades had been retracted for unethical practices – namely, experimenting on unwilling and unknowing patients.

Thomas had neutralized the threat, cuffing the rogue scientist for extraction by Kingsman’s black ops division, and had returned to the party to unlock the doors and free the unwilling guests, who had been lured there under the pretenses that this was a charity event. They’d all been escorted home by their drivers, and all that was left was to see his partner safely to her rooms at the hotel. They would leave in two days, so as not to arouse suspicion from the local authorities; just a couple enjoying their vacation that had been caught up in nasty business.

“You’re quiet,” Lucy murmured as they approached their destination, the suites of rooms next door and containing a connecting door. Thomas inhaled, forcibly reminded of the woman beside him when he caught the faint floral scent of her perfume as she moved a little closer to him.

“Ruminating on a job well done,” he said, by way of explanation. He cleared his throat; it wasn’t often that Thomas was set off his pace, but the woman beside him had proven to be more than a match for him in both brains and competence, and it was both refreshing and unsettling.

It wasn’t that he’d ever considered women less than, it was that Lucy complemented him so  **well**. They excelled as a team, working in sync that was so rare even for agents that had trained for so long to behave so. She anticipated him to the point he was half-convinced she could actually read his mind. Beautiful and with a quick wit, Lucy Sheffield was dangerous.

Both to the enemy, and to him.

Kingsman didn’t fraternize. Despite having the most in common, it was rare for friendships to blossom between the Knights. At best, there was a chilly camaraderie between the Knights – more often warmed to the spirit of competition as they jostled for a pecking order at the Table. While Arthur proclaimed not to play favorites, seniority offered Thomas a more jaded opinion of the other Knights…especially the young prospects that had swallowed Chester King’s dogma.

He took another deep breath, settling his mind. The mission was over. It was time to decompress.

He stopped at her door, waiting while she unlocked it. The curve of her neck was enticing, pale skin circled with a necklace that accentuated it in golds and reds. It teased, beckoning him to trace her neck with his fingers, perhaps his lips.

Thomas dismissed the thought almost violently, pushing it from his mind. While she was alluring, she was still his colleague, and deserved the respect of being treated as such. There was no place in his life for that, not now or ever, though Lucy seemed to share at least a sense of it, looking up at him through long lashes as she unlocked the door.

“Drink?” she asked, the quirk of her lips barely there. If he’d blinked, he’d have missed it.

“Perhaps another time,” he said softly. The moue of her lips was inviting, painted an intriguing red. Where most women these days went for flashier, brighter colors, Morgana had stood from the crowd in her neutral grey with her darker makeup. She’d been like a snowdrop with just that touch of color, just enough to draw one in.

“Mm,” she said, standing in the doorway. She dropped her eyes, looking uncertain for the first time of their acquaintance. He frowned, hesitating at the door.

He should say goodnight. He should congratulate her on a job well done.

“Something wrong?” he asked.

“If this were a novel,” she began, clearly having thought about this by the way she started, “You would have accepted that drink.”

“But this isn’t a novel,” Thomas reminded her gently. “And fraternization isn’t only frowned upon, but would jeopardize your position within the organization.”

“I know,” she said softly. She wrapped her arms around herself, swallowing. “The truth hurts.”

“It has to,” he said, tucking his fingers beneath her chin and encouraging her to look up. Blue eyes met his own and he made a soft noise, whether regret or censure even he couldn’t tell. “Because without it, we’d both regret.”

“If you’re so partial to the truth…” She hesitated, then squared her shoulders, lifting her chin as she looked him in the eye. “Lie to me, then.”

His heart thundered in his ears as what she said slipped over him. She was a bold one, he’d give her that, and he cleared his throat.

“Kingsman are always right and true,” he murmured, sliding his fingers along her jaw. “We always save the day, and are always on time. We’ve never failed.”

Her lashes fluttered down, that inviting red mouth parting ever so slightly as he closed the gap between them, his head tilting naturally to fit in her space.

“Gifted with instincts that are always right, and makers of perfectly rational decisions,” he said, his voice rougher as he trailed his fingers over her neck, watching her pulse jitter as he did, moving to her bared shoulder. “We are always content with our lot in life, and we never, ever… ** _regret_**.”

“I almost believe you,” she said, her breath warm against his lips. He held himself stock still, like a predator poised to strike, his hand on the soft skin of her shoulder, his other on her waist. “Will you be accepting that drink?”

“Just the one,” he said, bending his head at last to kiss her.

It was the first of many lies he told.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love Thomas and Lucy. Even though they make me hella sad, I love them.


	10. Care and Keeping (Merlahad, Photographs and Memories 'verse)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes you just have to let the fear wash over you, and through you, accept it and be. It's easier with help.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Dialogue Prompts](http://lywinis.tumblr.com/post/167892892782/50-dialogue-prompts) \- "You're trembling."

_**[London, England**_ – _ **1** **995]**_

Harry woke to Merlin sitting on the edge of the bed, as though getting ready to bolt. He had his trousers in one hand, his palm pressed to his face. Checking the clock in the dim light of morning, he realized it was close to five in the morning.

Harry sat up, scooting himself beside Merlin.

“You’re trembling.”

Merlin nodded, giving a shaky inhale. Harry ran his fingers down Merlin’s spine, feeling the tension as the wizard’s back flexed under his thumb. Harry pressed his lips to the base of Merlin’s neck, wrapping an arm around him.

“Talk to me,” he said. “What’s got you in knots?”

“Nightmare,” Merlin said softly. “I should be going anyway, the shop–”

“ ** _Bugger the shop_** ,” Harry said, his tone vicious. “You’re off the clock today. As am I. Medical leave, already signed off on. We agreed.”

“I know, Harry,” Merlin said, inhaling. “I just…”

“What was it?”

“Rhodes,” Merlin said softly. He swallowed, his throat working, and he passed a hand over his eyes.

Harry fell silent, his temper dampening at the mention of Greece. While several years in their past, it had still been a marker on their relationship, and not a particularly kind one.

“What happened?” Harry asked, his tone much softer now as he ran a hand up and down Merlin’s back.

“I didn’t make it,” Merlin said simply. “I failed.”

“Oh, Merlin,” Harry said. Merlin shook his head, turning to face him. Harry herded him close, and Merlin followed the Knight’s lead, allowing himself to be pulled against Harry’s chest as he lay back with the wizard. He passed a hand across Merlin’s shorn scalp, running his long fingers across Merlin’s neck and down to his shoulders.

“I couldn’t swim fast enough,” Merlin whispered. “I got to the boat and you were already–”

“I am right here, beside you. Quite alive and well,” Harry reminded him, his voice steady as the rise and fall of his breath. “And unless something catastrophic were to happen, I plan on remaining so, at least for the rest of the day – and for the rest of our lives, if I can somehow manage it.”

“Harry,” Merlin said softly. “These nights are the worst.”

“I know,” Harry said. He pressed a kiss to the crown of his partner’s head. “But that doesn’t mean you get to spend them alone, not anymore.”

Merlin frowned, but didn’t argue, allowing Harry to bundle them back into bed. Harry pulled the blankets up, glad that he did so as a flash of lightning lit the bedroom in a stark negative as thunder rolled across the little townhome. Soon enough, rain began to patter across the windows, and the noise of dog tags jingling against collars announced the presence of Merlin’s troupe, the animals all sitting at the edge of the bed.

“All right,” Harry sighed, patting the bed. “Just this once.”

“Liar,” Merlin said, chuckling as all five dogs settled on the bed, negotiating space as the two men curled closer to each other.

“Don’t contradict me in front of the children,” Harry murmured back, though he bent and pressed his lips to Merlin when the other nudged him.

“Thank you,” Merlin said.

“Whatever for, dove?” Harry asked.

“For being you,” Merlin said. “And for tolerating me.”

“I love you, there’s nothing tolerant about that,” Harry reminded him. “You put up with my rages and my fits of pique, my peccadilloes and my quirks. You know me better than anyone in this world, and I would be quite lost and sorry without you.”

Merlin pressed his face against Harry’s neck, and Harry grinned when he heard Merlin’s gruff reply.

“And don’t you forget it.”

They drifted back to sleep with the sound of rain against the windows, surrounded by gently snoring dogs. Not a bad way to spend a lazy Sunday morning, in Harry’s opinion.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is still one of my favorite fills. I love these two old men.


	11. I Should Tell You (Merlahad, Photographs and Memories 'verse)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Extraction goes as planned, though Harry never expected to be picked up by Merlin himself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Dialogue Prompts](http://lywinis.tumblr.com/post/167892892782/50-dialogue-prompts) \- "Was that supposed to hurt?"

**[Issyk-Kul, Kyrgyzstan – 1989]**

“Was that supposed to hurt?” Harry said, his tone snide as the burly twosome readied to begin working over his ribs again. His Russian was better now than it had been in Barcelona, but his consonants were still too rough. The thought was idle, brought on by both pain and his body going into shock. He knew he was going to get the poor end of the bargain here, but he still needed to hold out in order for Merlin to find him with the satellites.

Relatively new technology, Merlin swore the geolocation tabs under their collars would help Kingsman locate wayward agents, but for now, he’d been holed up in these mountain caves with the gruesome twosome for three days. He had the bruises to prove it, too. They’d strung him up, looping ropes under his armpits and tying his ankles so he was left to swing when they struck him – but only enough to make it hurt more.

They’d not broken his spirit yet, though. The man on the left reared back, and the impact to his sternum made his whole body sing out a song of pain that had been meted out. He felt like he was going to fall apart like a well basted Sunday chicken, but he just grinned, spitting blood onto the cave floor.

“Where is the microfiche?” the one on the right demanded.

“What microfiche?” he replied.

He was cuffed across the face for his cheek, and he just laughed.

“You should know I never go anywhere without backup,” Harry said.

“You’ve been here three days, they would have gotten you by now,” the left sneered.

“I was held up at the border,” came a voice. Harry finally relaxed with a smug smile, slumping in his bonds as a figure blocked the weak sunlight that filtered in through the cave door. “Must have been the accent.”

The two men yelled and scrambled for their weapons, but Merlin was already armed. The MP5K made short work of his tormentors in a raw burst of gunfire, and then Merlin slung his weapon over his shoulder to see to Harry.

“And here I thought you wouldn’t come,” Harry said. He sounded tired, even to his own ears. “Did Arthur okay this?”

“I was the one who got you caught, after all,” Merlin said. “Should have double checked that info.”

“Nonsense,” Harry said, spitting again to the side as Merlin cut his bonds. He stumbled, and the wizard caught him against his shoulder. “Could have sent our new boy, Percival.”

“Galahad…” Merlin’s voice was soft, but he must have been on radio, because in the next moment he hauled Harry into his arms and lifted, moving to carry him out of the cave.

“I should tell you—”

“Hush now, tell me later,” Merlin said, scanning the skies as Harry lay in Merlin’s arms, head against the rough cloth of his flak jacket. “The microfiche?”

“Boot sole,” Harry said. “I should tell you—”

“There’s our ride,” Merlin said with some satisfaction. The Blackhawk was loud, the  _whupwhupwhup_  of the rotors drowning out any attempts Harry could make to speak, and Merlin lifted Harry onto the chopper and into Morgana’s waiting hands. By the time she was done poking and prodding him, the sedative she’d given him was well on its way to working.

The last thing he remembered was Merlin, watching their backs out of the open door, his gun in his hand and his eyes narrowed.

* * *

He woke two days later to Morgana adjusting his blankets. He must have been black and blue, from the way he made a wheezing sound instead of the cheery ‘Hello, Mags’ he’d intended. She clucked her tongue at him and brought him a glass of water with a straw.

“ _Must_  you antagonize your captors?” she asked him as he drank.

“It was only a little,” he said, lolling his head back once his dry throat was eased. He grinned up at her, though his face must be swollen and an awful mess, judging from her expression. “Where’s Merlin?”

“In Central, where else?” she asked. “He had reports to file.”

“Ah.” Harry didn’t quite know how to feel about this. Surely Merlin would have sat…

No, it wasn’t like that anymore, he corrected. Rhodes had changed all that. Merlin didn’t want to see him anymore, not like that. He was “Mister Hart” or “Galahad” now, not Harry. He let out a little sigh, turning his head toward the window.

“Was the microfiche recovered?” he asked instead, to cover his disappointment.

“Yes, and destroyed. The Russian nationalists who planned to sell it back came up empty and disappeared. I think you can extrapolate.”

“Good,” Harry said. “That nerve gas was potent.”

“It was,” she said. “You did a good job.”

“Thanks, mum,” he said, his eyes slowly drifting shut. “At least you were here.”

“Always, Galahad.” She stroked his hair back from his forehead, and he drifted back to sleep.

* * *

“You’re welcome,” Morgana said, squeezing Merlin’s shoulder as he sat outside the infirmary in Morgana’s office, looking in at Harry through the one-way glass as he slept. “He’ll be back on his feet in no time.”

“Good…” Merlin said, distracted. “That’s good.”

“I still think you should go and sit with him.”

“Arthur would have my bollocks and my job,” Merlin muttered darkly. “I’m pushing it just being here after going in alone after him.”

“Mm, you’re here to discuss your dosages, nothing to do with Galahad,” she replied archly, pulling Merlin’s file and flipping it open. “Now. Tell me about your normal days. How have they gone?”

Merlin tore his eyes from Galahad’s sleeping form and focused on Morgana. He brought out the journal she’d asked him to keep and started picking through it, reading from the entries.

Harry would recover. Perhaps Merlin would, too. The both of them together, Morgana mused, might even make it.

Only time would tell.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm a sucker for the way the call and answer of 'I should tell you' falls in Rent. I couldn't stop thinking about it because Post-Rhodes/Pre-Reconciliation Harry and Merlin makes me sad.


	12. Alpha (Merlahad, Werewolves of London AU)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's only natural for Harry to be confused.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Kiss Meme](https://lywinis.tumblr.com/post/169508761067/fictional-kiss-prompts) \- 14. Starting with a kiss meaning to be gentle, ending up in passion.

“He smells funny,” Eggsy complained. Merlin nodded absently, watching Harry through the glass. It wasn’t as though Eggsy had ever known Harry back when Thomas was alpha. Thanks to Merlin’s own cursed genetics, he could smell the change as well as Eggsy could, though he couldn’t shift to match them.

It was strange, almost like a slap in the face, to see Harry so. Galahad had been the Kingsman pack alpha for nearly twenty years. When Thomas had passed away, it was natural for the next most talented shifter to step up to the plate. Harry, with his wolf form almost the size of a small car, was the natural choice. No one had even challenged him.

But it was undeniable. When Merlin walked into the room that held Harry now, it reeked of beta pheromones. Eggsy had smelled them as well, and now the young shifter paced restlessly, the assault on his senses leaving him agitated.

“He doesn’t remember being an alpha,” Merlin murmured, watching Harry fiddle with another of his ink pens, carefully drawing the monarch into his field journal freehand. “At this period in his life, his father was alpha, and then he switched groups, and Thomas was.”

Eggsy grunted. “We gotta get him to remember.”

“Aye.” Merlin watched the ripple of agitation bring Eggsy’s wolf to the surface again, tinting his irises an eerie blue. “But you’re not going to make any headway coming at him like that.”

“We’ll think of something,” Eggsy promised.

* * *

The butterflies receded, and Harry stood, staring down at the pups who had saved him from himself. Eggsy watched him, neck working as he swallowed, his eyes bright blue as Harry composed himself.

“Eggsy,” he grated, holding the wriggling puppy in his hands. The cairn terrier wasn’t Mister Pickle, but it had been close enough that it had jogged his memory. He remembered, now, the time he’d spent in Kingsman, being alpha. Being Harry Hart. Eggsy threw his arms around his mentor, leaving Harry to rumble at him, deep in his chest, as he squeezed back.

“Welcome back,” Eggsy muttered. He took the puppy from Harry’s hands just as the door shirred open, admitting a familiar scent.

Harry lifted his head and took in Merlin, shifting from foot to foot. Harry’s chest swelled with a noise that was a mix between relief and want. He was across the room in a blink, pressing Merlin against the wall, his mouth against the pulse that jittered in Merlin’s neck. Harry’s head reeled with the scents that rolled off Merlin. Relief, trepidation, he could hear the way Merlin’s heart hammered as their eyes met.

The want, as Merlin lifted his chin, exposing his neck for Harry—something that made him crave more. Skin to skin.

Harry pressed his mouth against Merlin’s, a soft kiss, greeting him. Merlin exhaled softly, as though he were about to say something, but Harry took the opportunity presented to devour his mate’s mouth. Because that was what Merlin was, his wolf told him, making his chest swell with a satisfied noise.

_His._ His mate. Fought and bled for.

Merlin’s tongue slid against his, pressing against canines that had gotten too long to be human, the prick and brassy tang of blood just making Harry tremble. _Ours_ , his wolf sing-songed, a note of triumph in Harry’s growl as he wedged one long leg between Merlin’s, feeling the other press against the hard muscle of his thigh. He caged Merlin against the wall, kissing him until neither of them could breathe, until he was aware of Merlin pushing against his chest.

“No, Harry—”

Harry pulled himself back to look at Merlin, confusion swirling in his eye. Merlin was rumpled, his lips swollen and a trickle of blood running from the corner of his mouth. He shook his head at Harry.

“We’re not—”

“But—”

Oh. Harry had been rejected. When had that happened? Some memories were still coming back. Had he misremembered? Had he read Merlin wrong?

He sniffed, scenting the air. There wasn’t fear here, just want. Eggsy had slid past them, puppy in hand, long gone now because the tension in the air had made the young shifter’s hackles rise and he needed to escape the confines of the room. It was just Harry and Merlin, the latter left panting against the wall and the former with confusion in a single eye that glowed the gold of an ingot in a forge.

“When?”

“Never,” Merlin said. “We’ve never been mated.”

“I could…my apologies, Merlin. I seem to be…confused.”

Merlin swallowed, nodding. “It’s only natural. You’ve been under a great deal of strain.”

Harry lifted his hand, but Merlin shied away. “Merlin—”

“I’m sure you want to get dressed. I’ve left you a bespoke in the other room. Let me get it for you.”

“…of course.”

Like a wraith, Merlin was gone, leaving Harry to sit on the bed and quell the trembling in his limbs. If Merlin wasn’t his mate, why had they fit together like he was? Why did Harry feel that tug in his chest as though his animal had clamed Merlin a long time ago?

Confusion swirled, leaving him feeling sick with the copper of blood on his tongue.

_Not ours!_ He reprimanded his wolf.

_Ours!_ His animal insisted.

A snarl rippled through him, and he bit it back, scrubbing his hands through his hair.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is something I've been kicking around. Not true A/B/O because most of the tropes for that are squicky, this is actually shifter!verse. I'm okay with it not being everyone's thing, however.


	13. Moonsick (Percilot, Werewolves of London AU)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wolves mate for life, at least wolf shifters do.

Martin pressed his lips softly to James’s mouth, feeling the other shifter respond almost immediately. He kept the kiss soft, chaste as he ran his hands over James’s arms, trailed his fingers across his mate’s chest. He felt like a missing puzzle piece had been slotted into place, and while his fingers crossed a road map of pain etched out on James’s skin every time they found a scar, he was here. He was whole.

And that meant Martin was whole too.

Wolf shifters mated for life. Losing James had been akin to spiraling into madness. His wolf had grieved, mourning James’s passing. It had been a race against time to see Roxanne achieve the Lancelot title, to make sure that she would do well, before he gave in to the animal completely. Whispers that he would turn feral any day had echoed in his sensitive ears.

Instead, he’d found a familiar scent in Valentine’s bunker during cleanup. Following his nose had been the best decision of his life, because the shifter under him had brought him back from the brink of madness. James sighed softly, a contented rumble in his chest. Martin’s kiss deepened, reflexively, and James opened to him, his eyes drifting shut as Martin kissed him.

The slide of their tongues was a balm on Martin’s soul. He could still feel his mate breathing, see the rise and fall of his chest, hear his heartbeat. But this? The closeness?

It reminded him that this wasn’t just a fever dream. He tunneled his hands through James’s hair, feeling James respond under him, nipping his lower lip.

“Martin,” James gasped, pulling back. There was the hiss of pain in his voice, and Martin nearly sprang off the bed in his panic. Had he hurt him? “Relax, relax. I just overdid it a bit.”

Martin settled, curling close to James again. James sighed, a content noise as Martin draped himself carefully around him.

“I’ve got to be more gentle,” Martin whispered. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be,” James said. “It was hard for you, too. I can’t imagine being in mourning and trying to get a recruit trained and…all of that.”

Martin leaned his head on James’s chest, listening to the solid thud of his heart. They would get there. James was healing. He would survive.

Martin would too.

It was enough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not leaving James and Martin out, that's for sure.


	14. Succulent (Percilot, Florist AU)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> James has become a regular at the Kingsman florist -- just not for the reasons he should be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Kiss meme](https://lywinis.tumblr.com/post/169508761067/fictional-kiss-prompts) \- 16. when one person’s face is scrunched up, and the other one kisses their lips/nose/forehead

James could see that Martin was concentrating. It didn’t take much for the dark-haired man to look such—Martin always wore such a severe look when James walked into Merlin’s shop that he had to wonder if it wasn’t him. Over time, however, he’d realized that it wasn’t necessarily him; Martin’s face just often pinched while he was working on something.

James didn’t think Martin even heard the bell over the door chime. He padded quietly to the back of the shop, watching the minute shift of expressions that crossed Martin’s face. Martin was carefully transferring a tray of succulents to their own pots, making them new and larger homes with room to grow. James paused, taking in the way Martin was tender with a plant that most people would pass over, simply because it wasn’t considered beautiful.

James himself had taken a liking to the unusual plants. Mostly because of the man in front of him, he now had a growing collection in his flat, fifteen and counting. They reminded him a lot of Martin, untouchable but handsome in their way. And when the smallest cacti he’d bought had grown a flower, well, James couldn’t help but take that as a sign.

It was no secret that James was harboring a massive crush on the man before him; James Spencer did not keep secrets like that, and rarely thought it worth it to keep something like that under wraps. It was much nicer to say something and just get it out there, rather than let it fester…something he wished he could tell Merlin to do about that handsome bloke that had wandered in last Thursday.

It was clear they were into each other, even from across the room where he was buying a new little succulent Martin called a Chocolate Soldier.

Still, that was their business, and his attention was on Martin now. He crinkled the cellophane wrapper of Roxy’s brownies, to no avail. Martin was off in his own little world.

James leaned on the counter Martin was working on, watching how his hands moved. James loved these moments, where they were the only ones in the shop—Eggsy must have been on his lunch break, and Merlin was attending to that secretive project that he wasn’t talking about other than it was exciting.

“What do you want, Mister Spencer?” Martin asked, not looking up from his trays.

“Well, calling me James, for a start. Mister Spencer is my father, and a right bastard at times.” James tried for a charming smile, but it was lost on the top of Martin’s head. James sighed. “I thought you might like a break.”

Martin did look up when James wiggled the cellophane underneath his nose. His face got pinched, his eyes closing as he set down the little pots he was working with.

“I’m afraid I can’t,” Martin replied.

“You’re hardly swarming with customers,” James countered. “Have a brownie with me.”

“It’s not that I’m not appreciative,” Martin began slowly. “But…I’m cutting back.”

“On the brownies?” James asked. “Whyever for?”

Martin mumbled something, scrunching his face even more. James blinked, not catching the rush of words as they tumbled from Martin’s mouth.

“I’m sorry?” he asked, leaning in.

“I’m getting fat,” Martin said, frowning hard and keeping his eyes squeezed shut. “I’ve had brownies for tea for a month because you keep bringing them in.”

James let loose a bark of laughter before he realized that Martin was serious—and flushing hard. He bit back the laughter bubbling up, and leaned in. Martin didn’t see him coming, with his eyes squeezed shut.

“I think you’re marvelous,” James breathed. “So who cares? Have a brownie with me.”

Martin opened his mouth to protest, but James’s lips met his right then and James almost sighed in pleasure as Martin, instead of jumping back, leaned into it. James tested the waters, nibbling Martin’s lower lip, and the other man seemed helpless to do anything but open for him like the prettiest of flowers. James sipped, gentle, and then pulled back, pressing their foreheads together.

“Let me take you out,” James said, whispering the words against Martin’s mouth. “Real supper, no more brownies.”

“James,” Martin said, and James swore he could get used to how wrecked Martin sounded, his voice husky and rough. “I—”

The jingling of the shop bell broke them apart, and Martin regained his calm as an older woman approached the counter. James sighed internally, because the moment was gone, popped like a soap bubble. He set the brownies on the counter and shoved his hands in his pockets, heading out the door.

His mobile buzzed with an unfamiliar number when he hit the street, and he opened it up to see a text message.

_I get out at six. No more brownies. – M_

Roxy would just have to think of something else to win Martin over. James couldn’t say he was sorry about that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not how they get together either, but...fun to think about.


	15. Insomnia (Merlahad, Concurrent During TGC, Photographs and Memories 'Verse)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Merlin can't sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Kiss Meme](https://lywinis.tumblr.com/post/169508761067/fictional-kiss-prompts) 19\. kisses meant to distract the other person from whatever they were intently doing

Merlin’s excuse was that it had been an exceptionally long week. Going from losing everyone in Kingsman, stumbling overseas and being captured (and later welcomed) by their sister organization, to discovering that Harry Hart was indeed alive, though without his memories—it had been a very, very long time since he’d had a good night’s sleep.

He rubbed his eyes now, feeling the grit that resided there near constantly these days. Losing Harry had taken a toll on him, long before Poppy had entered the picture; Merlin rarely slept more than three hours a night in those days. Still, he had Eggsy to look after, and Roxy—

He twitched his head to the side, remembering that their newly knighted Lancelot was already dead and gone. It brought a dull ache to the center of his chest, like he’d been punched repeatedly in the sternum. The ache centered around the rest of the Knights he’d either trained or respected if not personally, then for their ability.

So many men, dead and gone. Roxy before her time. James and Martin—James a second time, so soon after his recovery in Valentine’s cells. If he thought about it too long, he’d spiral into madness; in order to quell the onrush of feeling that threatened to swallow him whole, he did what he always did when unable to sleep.

He tinkered.

The Rainmaker lay in pieces before him, spread out on a clean mat on the work table. Harry’s cell was just opposite this room, though the man should have been sleeping; Merlin had chosen to make his own quarters here, next door. The one-way mirror into Harry’s room was dark. Merlin had opted to turn it off rather than give Harry no privacy whatsoever.

He wasn’t alone, either. Eggsy had opted for the cell on the other side of Harry, rather than the appointed Statesman rooms a floor above. Kingsman were nothing if not loyal to one of their own—and the fact that one of the greatest of their own was here wasn’t lost on Ginger Ale, at least.

They’d been allotted space, including a small kitchenette, to make their own. Harry had been allowed the run of their appointed space, taking small joy in being able to walk about without supervision. He was blocked from going outside or accessing further into the Statesman compound, but now he frequented the small sitting area and the kitchen almost as much as his own cell.

There was a sense of peace, knowing that the man he’d chosen to spend his life with was alive. Not entirely well, but alive. It was hard to describe to anyone who had never lost a partner before. He could see and touch the man he loved, though he’d refrained save for squeezing Harry’s shoulder once in comfort. Harry didn’t—couldn’t—remember the life they’d built together, in secret.

How could he say that ‘ _yes, I loved you, you and I, we were **together**_ ’ without some type of physical evidence? Everything he owned, save for the butterfly pinned in the frame that rested on Harry’s desk right now, it was all squirreled away in a bank in London, under lock and key, far out of the reach of Arthur’s grasping hand. It would have surely been destroyed otherwise, these hints of sentiment that flowed under the surface, like an ocean’s undertow.

All he could do was wait for Harry to return to him.

Harry always seemed to be on the precipice of saying or doing something that would mean that the veil of his lost memory had lifted. They had been running tests. It wouldn’t be long now, Merlin was sure of it.

If he could get that piece of Harry to click back into place, if he could help him remember—

Hands, slightly chilled from the controlled temperatures down in the cells, framed his face, startling him. He’d been so deep in thought that he hadn’t even heard someone come in. He looked up, catching Harry’s look of concern before the other man brought his lips to Merlin’s. The shock of familiarity was like giving a thirsty man a canteen in the desert.

He returned the kiss before he could think, his muddled and tired brain latching on to the one sense of security that he always had before. Without considering, he opened to Harry, his hand rising and tunneling through tousled salt-and-pepper curls. A desperate noise eked out, and Merlin couldn’t tell if it was himself or Harry, drinking deep from the well of comfort that his partner had offered him. Harry’s tongue tangled with his own, long and elegant hands patting against the front of Merlin’s jumper as though Harry were…nervous.

The thought brought him up short, the warmth in his chest turning into a cold stone that sank into the pit of his stomach. He backed off, hazel eyes meeting Harry’s single brown one. Harry searched his face, running his tongue along his slightly swollen lips, his fingers clenching in Merlin’s jumper.

“I’m…I’m sorry,” Harry said, his voice wavering. Not the strong, authoritative voice of Galahad, of Harry Hart. This was the voice of a man who thought he was a lepidopterist and who wished to go home to his long-dead mother. “I thought…I wanted…I don’t know.”

Merlin couldn’t blame him; in fact, he almost understood Harry’s reasoning. His first instinct, always, where Merlin was concerned was _stop paying attention to that and pay attention to me_. It was frustrating, in the way that he could see the ghost of Harry hovering about this man. Memories firing, but just barely. Not enough to bring him back.

Merlin wasn’t enough.

The thought wasn’t just disheartening, it was enough to take the legs out from under Merlin, if he hadn’t already been sitting.

Instead of leaping back or reprimanding Harry, Merlin reached up. Gently, he unwound Harry’s fingers from his jumper, taking Harry’s left hand between his own. Harry looked not only mortified, but frightened of the instinct that had taken over him. His hand shook in Merlin’s own, and Merlin gave him what he hoped was a reassuring smile.

“Harry,” he said gently. “It’s all right.”

“It isn’t,” Harry said. “Don’t treat me like the addled _child_ that they do.”

His voice broke as he said it, thick and aching, and Merlin wanted nothing more to reach up and press the errant curl that fell into Harry’s eyes back; his hair was too long again, Statesman didn’t know enough to cut it shorter—

He stopped himself, just holding Harry’s hand.

“I wasn’t trying to treat you like a child,” Merlin said softly, giving Harry’s hand a squeeze. “While that was nice, I don’t feel it’s right.”

“Of course,” Harry said, his tone stiff. “I have to apologize. It felt…almost…like…”

“Like you could remember?” Merlin asked.

Harry nodded, his expression crumpling into something miserable. Merlin let his hand go when Harry tugged, and Harry wrapped his arms around himself. Harry looked away, inadvertently giving Merlin a profile view of his patched eye as he looked down and to the right.

“I feel different when I’m around you,” he said. “I…I called your name when I came in. The door was open but you didn’t respond when I knocked. I thought you might like a cup of tea, but when I called your name again, you were off in your own little world. Something in me knew that it would work, I just…did it.”

Merlin nodded slowly. “Desperation leads us to try crazy things. I can’t imagine how it must feel. And I appreciate how hard you’re working on regaining your memories, Harry.”

Harry bit his lip. “Can you forgive me?”

“Already forgiven,” Merlin said, reaching up and squeezing Harry’s shoulder. “Though…I think we both might need some sleep. I forgot myself there, and that’s not good for either of our health. We can discuss it tomorrow, when we’ve both had some rest.”

“Perhaps that’s best,” Harry agreed softly, though the turn of his mouth said otherwise. Discussing it later, for men like them, meant not at all. Harry at least hadn’t lost everything, his social instincts still sharp.

Merlin rose, intent on seeing Harry to the door. Harry paused at the entrance to Merlin’s room, looking back at him. There was such a soft look of longing on his face that Merlin’s heart nearly split neatly into halves.

“You’re a good man, Merlin. I hope you know that.”

“Thank you, Harry,” Merlin said. They said their goodnights, and Merlin closed the door once he was sure that Harry was safely in his room once more. He closed the door, locked it, and let his forehead press against the cool metal.

He was too tired even for tears, his face feeling hot and pinched. Turning away from the door, he reached out and shut off his lamp, moving to lay down. He might not sleep, but the least he could do was try.

He owed that much to Harry.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ahahahahaha, I'm a bad man. 
> 
> Also, if it makes you feel better, this hurt me probably more than it hurt you.
> 
> ...probably.


	16. Connections (Merlahad, no predetermined relationship, undefined AU)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 
>     Kingsman could have done without him, but Harry? Harry was their best and brightest agent. They needed a Knight of Galahad’s caliber to keep them on the straight and narrow, and Merlin knew that this job had its sacrifices before he’d been accepted as Emrys and trained as Merlin.
>     
>     He could do this, for Harry’s sake. He didn’t deserve to die because of Merlin’s selfish wish that this had been in other circumstances. The wish that this could be real.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Kiss Meme](https://lywinis.tumblr.com/post/169508761067/fictional-kiss-prompts) either 12 or 15 (only the first part if at all possible) for merlahad. Even better if you could make it angst
> 
> 12\. a hoarse whisper “kiss me”  
> 15\. a gentle “i love you” whispered after a soft kiss, followed immediately by a stronger kiss
> 
> Warnings for this chapter: This chapter contains the popular trope 'sex-pollen' or a fuck-or-die scenario. If such things bother you, you might want to skip this one. it's also fairly graphic.
> 
> This is an undefined universe with no pre-established relationship, though there's pining from Merlin's end.

**[1990, Current Location Classified]**

Natalia Yusupova was a name that was both familiar and enraging to Harry. He had many run ins with her father, the famed chemist, and when he was finally behind bars where he belonged, Natalia seemed to have turned her sights onto him and Kingsman as a whole. As brilliant as her father, she had the same set of twisted morals that made her dangerous.

Kingsman had labeled her a sadist, though the word seemed mild for the many things Harry had been privy to the woman doing. She took joy in causing pain; whether that be physical, emotional, or mental—she got her rocks off on it, as Tristan would have grunted over a pint. Harry’s jaw ticked as he moved through the compound, listening for something that would give her location away.

Usually, all he had to do was follow the screams.

“There should be a junction up ahead,” came Nimue’s lilting voice in his ear. “Turn left, and it leads deeper into the complex. Stay cautious, Galahad.”

“Ta, Nimue,” he murmured. He could feel her disapproval at his flippant reply.

Normally, the reserved woman didn’t work with him; she claimed that he was far too unpredictable to handle reliably, and left it up to Merlin. Today was not a day that could be done; Merlin was currently working with Tristan in another part of the compound, downloading files. The network was internal, closed off from the outside world, and Merlin needed to be present to break the encryption.

It left Harry with no backup as he tracked down the root of their problem.

That was hardly a problem, in Galahad’s book. He’d pulled off worse missions with even less, going in alone against several squads and emerging with nary a scratch. He padded quietly down the long concrete hallway, the smell of moisture one he couldn’t get away from this deep in the Nicaraguan jungle. The air was heavy in his lungs, and he was sweating in his bespoke.

He carried his rainmaker easily at his side, a MP5 dangling from a strap across his chest. His footfalls made the barest scrape as he pushed deeper. The guards had all rushed toward the data breach, which meant that Yusupova was alone, ostensibly.

Harry was going to plan this attack very carefully. He was awfully tired of chasing this woman down.

He came to another juncture, following Nimue’s soft instructions as he went. The ground, while at first a gradual slope downward, had become sharper as he descended. The air got cooler, becoming recycled and tasting of purifiers as he went deeper.

Periodically, doors were embedded in the wall, locked with key pads. While he could check each of these, his gut told him that these were holding cells, rather than laboratories. The feeding slots at the bottom of the doors and the heavy reinforcement seemed to convince Nimue as well. They could sweep the cells later once Yusupova was either dead or in custody.

The walls got less covered in dirt, and covered in more…interesting stains. The white cinderblock walls were spattered with rusty brown and fresher red, and he could smell the tang in the air. Harry felt his stomach turn unpleasantly at the sight of the drains in the floor. This was a Yusupova lair, indeed. She had her father’s taste for decorating.

“Nimue, another junction,” Harry murmured.

Static answered him.

“Damn,” he muttered. Their radios were things of beauty, but the one flaw Merlin hadn’t been able to plan around was the depth issue. Concrete bunkers and a closed intranet blocked his signals, and Nimue couldn’t reach him down here. He didn’t know when he’d slipped out of range, either—Nimue was much quieter than Merlin, who often kept up a running commentary.

Harry took a breath through his mouth, avoiding most of the smell. Nothing for it but to make an educated guess, and keep going. Backtracking would lose him both time and Yusupova.

“Eeeny, meeny, miney, moe…” he hummed, moving toward his right. He was rewarded with the sound of boots tramping his way, and he slid into an alcove that seemed to be an access to an incinerator chute just as another platoon of guards rushed past, rounding the corner from the right and jogging past him. Harry held his breath, then stepped out.

Time to choose that one, he supposed.

He cut right, jogging down the hallway. He thought it would be teeming with more guards, but they did seem preoccupied trying to batter down the doors around Tristan and Merlin’s heads. Godspeed to them both, but Merlin was well-trained and Tristan was even better. He had no doubt the other Knight and their Wizard would be more than a match for some former Spetsnaz.

The hallway didn’t branch anymore. The doors spacing the walls were joined by windows as well, revealing prisoners kept for observation; thankfully the cells were empty. Harry didn’t need anything making him angrier right this moment.

There was a large reinforced steel door at the end of the hallway, the metal gleaming in the flickering of the dying florescent bulbs above. It was eerie, but there was no thought of fear that crossed Harry’s mind.

Yusupova was human—monstrously so, but mortal all the same. She would die to a bullet if she tried anything.

There was no lock on this door, nor was there a keycard access point. Harry frowned, his brows drawing down. Either she didn’t care about her security (which would be a fallacy, given how her troops reacted), or this was a trap.

Harry’s instincts were going wild, and he swallowed back the hesitation, reaching out and opening the door. The door creaked as it swung on its hinges, as though protesting that he should be here. The room opened into a larger space, with a table set in the middle. Surgical lights above were currently dark, but they would illuminate the whole workspace for whoever was here to see. For now, shadows crawled in the corners, disguising the true dimensions of the room.

Harry would need to push inside to see more, but the lingering feeling that this was a trap sent warning all along his skin, making it rise in gooseflesh along his limbs. The drains on the floor were larger here, and the table was stained that same rusty brown.

The hiss of a pneumatic injector interrupted his thoughts as surely as the sting in his neck did. Yusupova had already danced out of reach by the time Harry turned, his reactions feeling slow and sluggish as whatever she’d put into his bloodstream started to work.

“Poor little _Tiger_ ,” she said, using the Russian equivalent of the word, her pet name for him whenever they happened to be at cross-purposes. “Caught you by your toe.”

Harry’s pithy response was like lead on his tongue, weighing him down as the floor rushed up to meet him.

* * *

“Merlin,” Nimue said, her soft voice slicing through his concentration. “I’ve lost touch with Galahad.”

Merlin’s head jerked up, and he glanced at Tristan, who acknowledged that he’d heard as well. Nimue’s lack of a private channel meant that this was urgent. He placed his fingers to his spectacles. “How long?”

“Less than five minutes ago, but you know it takes him less than that to get himself into a scrape,” Nimue replied, the flat tone of her voice belied by the sarcasm there. Tristan snorted, but Merlin’s worry for Galahad overrode his humor at the situation.

“True. I’m almost finished here,” he said, his fingers flying over the keys as he brute-forced his way into the remaining files. He yanked the cables free, tucking the spare hard drives into his bag. “Which way was he headed?”

“Deeper into the compound, after Yusupova,” she replied. “I can get you there.”

“Then we’re off,” Merlin said, zipping his bag. “Tristan?”

“Lead the way,” the Knight said, waving his hand out the door in an after-you gesture. They stepped out, weapons at the ready, but no more soldiers were after them. Tristan had been dragging them away from the door, and the hallway was clear save for the acrid tang of gun smoke. Merlin took point, his MP5 up and at the ready.

The halls were eerily quiet; the klaxon that had sounded when they’d breached the complex was long silent, and they took off at a jog. Their boots were the only sound now, tromping through the echoing concrete halls.

“He was supposed to be providing cover,” Tristan growled at his shoulder. “Why did he break away?”

“You’re rather new, so you don’t really know Galahad all that well,” Merlin replied, loping at an easy pace that ate up the distance as Nimue whispered instructions in their ears. “He holds a grudge for decades, and Yusupova has been a thorn in his side for at least a couple of years now.”

Tristan had joined them in 1987, a dark horse with a small child who’d risen to become the new Knight by sheer force of personality, or at least that was the rumor. Tristan had been trained by Merlin, however, and Merlin knew for a fact that he loved his daughter above everything else, and that he was in it to provide a better life for her. Something he could respect, and someone he could respect as well.

“He let her get away?” Tristan asked, surprised. Merlin shook his head as they rounded the corner.

“No. She keeps slipping through his fingers. It’s even more maddening for him, because he put her father away three years ago, finally.” Merlin shouldered his firearm, backing up. The hiss of static and the sound of Nimue calling his name coming back abruptly. “There it is. Nimue, we’re about to hit the dead zone. I need you to arrange extraction, because whatever has happened to Harry, we’re likely going to need a ride out of here.”

“Affirmative. Shall I have Morgana standing by?”

“A good idea.” Merlin exhaled, glancing at Tristan. “Shall we?”

“Lead the way.”

* * *

Harry was on fire.

His veins were full of molten gold, his eyes dried out and painful as he turned his head to the side. Yusupova leaned over him, strapping him to the table. Her smile was predatory, even in the haze he was in.

“Wh…” Harry couldn’t even get the words out, his throat raw.

“You’ll be fine in just a minute, once I inject the rest of this.” She held up the injector, the glowing blue of the vial inserted promising cold to his heat. The pinch this time made him scream, and he jerked away from her, the ice crawling through him making his lungs seize. Harry’s wrists chafed as he struggled against the bonds, and she pulled the injector away, setting it on the table. “Ah, ah, where’s the fun in that?”

* * *

The longer they went, the more worried Merlin became.

It was no secret that the quartermaster didn’t play favorites, but it was also well known that Merlin seemed to be the only one to be able to temper Galahad’s flights of disobedience. It wasn’t the only reason Merlin worried, of course. Galahad was a fine agent, but he was also the closest thing Merlin had to a friend in Kingsman.

They’d been colleagues for nearly ten years at this point. Harry was nearing his thirtieth birthday, Merlin his twenty-seventh, but Merlin still remembered the fresh-faced young man that had nearly broken his nose with a butterfly net his first day. Harry was stubborn, determined, and worked at a problem like a dog with a bone. Merlin was much the same way.

Merlin supposed it only natural that he fall in love with someone he couldn’t have; as a ‘gutter-mouthed orphan’ from the streets of Glasgow, he’d scraped for everything he’d gotten, and he’d become used to that feeling of wanting someone he couldn’t have. He was careful, of course—Kingsman had no idea of his orientation, nor his private life—Merlin was hardly stupid. While Kingsman Knights were never directly censored from taking on a mission where the same sex should be seduced, it was far more common to see them being reprimanded for forming connections at all.

Another reason Tristan was a dark horse, and the final nail in that coffin that was attraction to Harry Hart.

Even if Merlin were to admit it to Harry, there would be no sure way to know that the man felt the same. While Merlin knew more about the Knight than probably all of the rest of Kingsman combined save Morgana—and it was his job to know—Harry still presented himself as a bit of an enigma. His preferences slid across the scale; Merlin had never had to give him a reason to seduce a target. But Kingsman was old, and the organization hardly bucked the establishment, even if Harry did think many of the rules were stuffy.

Really, Merlin couldn’t bear to think of Harry looking at him in disgust.

It was the reason he kept that tiny coal cupped in his hands and hidden from the world. But that tiny coal prodded him into nearly running by the time they reached the room at the end of the hallway, only skidding to a stop when they reached the end.

The door was locked, but Tristan knelt and picked it in record time, his hands quick and sure. They slipped inside without opening the door all the way, to find Harry bolted to a table, with Yusupova bending over him. Merlin melted into the shadows as Tristan began to approach her.

“Natalia Yusupova,” Tristan said. His voice was gruff, but it was enough to make her turn and face him, and that was the plan. Merlin slipped through the shadows, creeping along and attempting to find a way to reach Galahad without her being the wiser. He circled the room at a crouch, his gun at the ready.

“Ah, another uninvited guest,” she said. “You’re too late, you know. There’s no antidote for this.”

Merlin frowned, watching the way she waved the injector. There was a vial inside, containing a milky-white liquid, and Merlin would bet his wisdom teeth that it was actually what they were looking for. Yusupova enjoyed playing with her food, and Galahad looked far too gone, his eyes dark and fever bright as they locked on Merlin in the shadows when the bound Knight turned his head.

Yusupova hadn’t had nearly enough time with Harry. There had to be a catch here.

Merlin put a finger to his lips, and got a slow nod in return. He scooted forward, into the pool of light afforded by the overhead lamps. Galahad was in bad shape, his skin dry and cracked around his mouth and his breathing shallow. Merlin pressed Harry’s hair back, feeling how hot his skin was as he placed a palm against his forehead.

“Put the injector down,” Tristan growled, indicating the table with his Tokarev. Merlin focused on Galahad while he had his chance.

He could have cooked an egg on Harry’s forehead, and he knew enough about fevers to know that this one would burn Galahad right out of his life if he didn’t get him that antidote. He shot a glance at Tristan and nodded, and the Knight stepped forward as Merlin circled the table.

He grabbed Yusupova beneath the arms and she shrieked, twisting in his grasp and striking like a snake, the bite and hiss of the injector against his leg punching through his clothing. While he wore tactical gear, there was only so much protection he could be afforded, and he needed to remain mobile while carrying his gear. He’d forgone the extra plating for ease of movement, and the injector punched through the rough cloth of his trousers, piercing his thigh.

No bespoke to protect him, just two Knights, one of whom had lost his only chance at salvation as the milky fluid drained into Merlin’s bloodstream. He felt cold all over, looking down at Harry in a panic, the apology rising in his throat as he stumbled against the table. Harry’s glassy-eyed gaze never left him, even as the darkness rushed up to swallow him.

Faintly, he could hear Tristan calling for him, but there wasn’t much else he could do but fall. His last thought was that it was fitting that the man that loved him most had gotten Galahad killed.

Bittersweet, but fitting. Merlin should never have tried at all.

* * *

The trouble came when Morgana had instructed them to separate them for testing.

Harry was still conscious, and he’d risen from the bed like a thunderbolt, throwing Gawain through the two-way mirror and out into the hallway where Arthur and Lancelot stood observing. The orderlies scattered, because anyone bent on sedating a grown man with Knight training and ten years of Knight experience meant that they would have the same experience Gawain did.

Galahad stumbled, his eyes glassy again, and fell. This burst of activity seemed to have tired him out, and the orderlies herded him into a private, padded observation room. Morgana wanted to examine them both, but she only got the chance to look at Merlin before the room where Galahad was being kept proved to not be enough.

There was a thump, and then another rattle, the hinges on the door squealing dangerously. Galahad had slipped his restraints and was currently battering down the door. It rattled again as another thump sounded, and when they checked the cameras, they saw Galahad rising to his feet, clad only in his pyjama bottoms, and attempting to set his shoulder to the door again.

Arthur curled his lip. “Why weren’t they strapped down?”

“Because they were quiet during the flight,” Tristan said from where he was standing against the wall, his hands in his trouser pockets. “There seemed no reason to secure them.”

“And what, exactly, happened?” Arthur said, watching the door impassively.

“Exactly as I told you, sir. Merlin grabbed Yusupova from behind to attempt to secure what we thought was the antidote. She injected him, and in the ensuing scuffle, she got away. Morgana and the extraction team arrived shortly thereafter, and I was ordered by Nimue to stand down and not pursue.”

Arthur pursed his lips, looking sour as Morgana exited the other observation room, smoothing her skirts as she watched the door rattle. Without a word, she called up the systems that circulated the air, and gave Galahad’s room only the air from within his own room. The recycler kicked on, and the thumping stopped.

On the cameras, Harry stood, docile but confused, giving a glassy stare to the camera before he slumped down into a corner.

“I know what she’s done,” Morgana said, turning to them. “And it isn’t pretty.”

Both Arthur and Lancelot raised their brows, but waited on her to continue. Tristan wondered privately if all Kingsman just had their moments of melodrama, and whether he would become prone to them as well.

“The mixture she injected into Galahad has increased his testosterone to dangerous levels. Whatever she’s done to him, she’s made him capable of throwing Gawain through plate glass, so at first thought I imagined she was attempting a super soldier injection.” Morgana shook her head as the men attempted to leap to conclusions. “She wasn’t. She’s experimenting with hormonal mind control, as it were.”

“How so?” Arthur asked, his head swiveling between Galahad’s displays and Morgana.

“The injector that hit Merlin has the counter-hormone,” Morgana replied. “Whatever she did to create it, she manufactured it. I cannot replicate it, but I do know that Merlin can counter-act it, given enough time. I have a sneaking suspicion she was intending on injecting herself with the serum she gave Merlin, and turning Galahad loose on the two of you.”

She gestured to the vents.

“Well, we have them separated, now,” Lancelot said. His gaze rested on the monitor where Galahad sat, knees drawn up to his chest. “Can you create a counter-serum?”

“Not in the time it would take for the hormones to burn through their bodies,” Morgana said, her tone grave. “Reverse engineering something like this would take months, and while I can do it with the samples I’ve collected and the notes on the hard drives you brought back, these two don’t have that kind of time.”

She took a deep breath and turned to Tristan. “At the very least, be glad that you didn’t inject Galahad with both syringes. He would be dead right now.”

Tristan gave a sharp inhale. Morgana returned her attention to Arthur.

“I believe that they can work through this, but only if they’re in the same room, and only if they’re allowed privacy.”

Arthur scowled. “Privacy?”

Morgana almost looked exasperated as she gestured at the two holding cells. “What else do young men do when their hormones are that high besides fight?”

Understanding lit all three men’s faces, and Arthur’s brows knit in disgust. “Absolutely not.”

Morgana moved to the controls outside Galahad’s cells again, flipping the air from recycled back to the normal airflow. All four of them turned their attention to Galahad’s monitors. It took less than a minute. Galahad’s head snapped up as his nostrils, and he struggled to his feet, moving to the door. When the handle jiggled, everyone tensed.

The door remained locked, and then, on the monitor, Galahad backed up. The whole door shuddered in its frame as Harry threw himself into it in an attempt to break it off its hinges.

“Good lord,” Tristan muttered. This wasn’t just mere desperation, this was mindless destruction. The way Galahad had thrown himself into the door was nothing short of mental abandon. He’d lifted himself off the ground to toss every ounce of weight against the door.

“He’s trying to get to Merlin, acting on pure instinct,” Morgana said. She turned to Arthur as the door rattled on its hinges again. "Now, you can save yourself a mountain of paperwork as well as the selection of a new Galahad and Merlin and just shove them both into a room to work this out of their system, or I can go in there and sedate them both to the point that they slip away in a coma. There's no other counter-agent for this, not without manufacturing what they were drugged with."

The set to Arthur’s jaw indicated he wasn’t even less than happy, he was livid. He flicked a hand at her. “Do it. Clear everyone off this floor. No one but you allowed until you’re sure this…has passed. You two.”

He rounded on Tristan and Lancelot, pointing at each of them in turn.

“This outcome is classified. We will announce that Galahad and Merlin are recuperating. You will not contradict it, on pain of dismissal.”

“Sir,” Tristan said, straightening to just short of a salute.

Lancelot merely nodded, his faded denim eyes on the monitor where Galahad was gearing up to ram himself into the door once more.

* * *

Merlin woke to a door clicking shut. The pneumatic hiss of the door locking came after a moment, and he groaned. Whatever Yusupova had shot into him meant that he needed quarantine.

He wondered how Harry was doing, and he sat up, only to startle when he saw Harry sitting opposite him. They were in a padded cell, no doors or windows, and Harry’s eyes were trained on him. Brown the color of bitter chocolate was swallowed up in his pupils, which were blown wide, and his pulse beat at his neck.

“Galahad,” Merlin said, his voice sounding rusty. Harry was dressed in nothing but soft cotton pants, and Merlin jerked his eyes up to Harry’s face as the other man crawled across the floor to him. There was beauty in Harry’s economy of motion, his muscles bunching as he moved to sit beside Merlin. Merlin was reminded of a hunting cat. “How are you feeling?”

“Better,” Harry admitted. He looked down at Merlin, clad in the infirmary pyjamas, and reached out, tentatively. “Have they told you?”

“No,” Merlin said, shaking his head to clear the fuzziness away. “Told me what? Why are we isolated?”

“Yusupova injected us with hormones that feed off each other,” Harry said. He swallowed, looking away at last. “I’ve had more time for it to run through my system but…”

“What happens now?”

“We…we work through it, Morgana said. She gave us this much privacy. And supplies.” Harry flicked a hand at the bag in the corner by the door. “She says it’s the only way to burn out what’s in our systems.”

“Work through it…” Merlin’s head was pounding, in an insistent way, like he’d had too many at a pub crawl and now he had to work. “I don’t understand.”

Harry flushed, something that looked good on him. Merlin watched the color crawl up his chest to his neck, and he realized how uncomfortable Harry was.

“Merlin,” Harry said very quietly. “If we don’t have…if we can’t have…we’re going to die.”

Harry struggled to articulate it, and Merlin struggled to connect the dots until the only thing that seemed right popped into his brain like a puzzle piece sliding home.

“Wait,” Merlin bleated, shoving himself backward from Harry. Every hormone in his body was lying to him, telling him that it was the best idea ever had, but he struggled to maintain his reasoning. “Harry, I—”

“I don’t want to do it either,” Harry said. Merlin frowned, the cut to his ego set aside in the face of their immediate situation. He could beat himself up about it later. “But I need you of sound mind to make a decision.”

“A…decision.”

“Yes,” Harry said. “If you say no, it won’t happen. But we’ll die within a few days if we don’t.”

“Is this an attempt to be dramatic?” Merlin said.

“Afraid not,” Harry said. He mustered a half-smile for Merlin, but it fell flat. “Yusupova injected me with the catalyst. She intended to inject herself with the cure and keep me addicted, but you derailed that when you grabbed her. Instead, you have the cure and it’s only going to work itself out of our systems in coitus, because she’s nothing if not predictable.”

Merlin ran his hand across his face, inhaling. “And they’re sure?”

“It’s from Morgana.” Harry shrugged. Morgana had been wrong before, but it was rare. “And…in order to get to you, I picked up and flung Gawain through a window. I’m pretty sure she’s spot on.”

Merlin sighed softly. That was tantamount to it being a medical order. Harry reached out, putting his hand on Merlin’s arm. Even the barest brush of skin contact felt heavenly, like his nerves were singing this close to Harry. Heat rushed through him, replacing the cold and he cut his eyes to the side.

_Don’t make it more than it is. He already said he didn’t want to do this._

“What happens after?” he mumbled.

“After what?” Harry asked.

“After this. You’re my closest colleague. I like to think we might be friends, or as close to it as we can be. What happens after, when we’re no longer about to die?”

“We’ll have saved each other’s lives,” Harry said. “That’s enough, I should hope, to keep things from being awkward at tea.”

“Of course,” Merlin said. He looked up at Harry, swallowing as the other man met his gaze. “Harry.”

“Yes.”

“I’ve decided,” Merlin said.

Harry said nothing, waiting for Merlin to say it.

He’d already known the answer. Kingsman could have done without him, but Harry? Harry was their best and brightest agent. They needed a Knight of Galahad’s caliber to keep them on the straight and narrow, and Merlin knew that this job had its sacrifices before he’d been accepted as Emrys and trained as Merlin.

He could do this, for Harry’s sake. He didn’t deserve to die because of Merlin’s selfish wish that this had been in other circumstances. The wish that this could be real.

“Kiss me.” Merlin’s voice was hoarse, barely a whisper, but Harry leaned in.

Their lips met with an outrush of breath, their teeth clacking together as it went from soft and hesitant to hungry in a heartbeat. Merlin’s eyes slipped closed, letting Harry devour him, a throaty noise bubbling up as Harry slid a hand down his neck.

He could keep this. A could have been wrapped in duty and then shoved into the dark for the rest of their lives. It would be enough.

He opened for Harry, the slide of their tongues stoking the fire that was thawing the cold of his limbs. Harry hummed, moving to straddle Merlin’s thighs. Merlin could have sobbed with how they fit together. Even clothed, it was sinful how they collided, and he brought his hands up Harry’s bare chest, stroking his fingers up Galahad’s skin.

“Do that again,” Harry grated, and Merlin obliged, running his fingertips up Harry’s sternum to his throat, wrapping his hand around that lovely neck and tipping his head up so that he could mark Harry beneath his jaw. Harry was hard against his stomach, his erection pressing through the cotton of his pants, and Merlin took fierce pride in the fact that he could wind Harry up so.

“Go get the bag,” Merlin whispered in Harry’s ear, and Harry obliged, rising off Merlin’s lap and stumbling toward the door. He returned, dropping the bag beside them and returning to where he was, devouring Merlin’s mouth again.

“Why do you feel so good?” Harry whined, rolling his hips down and making Merlin see stars. He was going to lose his mind like this, he was sure, but thank god Morgana had the foresight to leave them things.

“It’s the hormones,” Merlin muttered, though the way that Harry was moving lent a little more to that lie than he wanted. He leaned in, pressing his mouth to Harry’s bare chest, leaving the man to curse. “Have you—”

“Not since Kolkata,” Harry said. That had been two years ago. “Have you…?”

“Not recently,” Merlin said. Harry backed off, his eyes seeming to focus on Merlin’s face more. “Should we flip for it and just get it over—”

“Let me,” Harry said. Ever the gentleman, he pressed the softest kiss to the corner of Merlin’s mouth, turning his attention toward the bag. Merlin’s temperature was dropping again, but Harry pulled several soft blankets and pillows from the bag. Lubricant, condoms, and spare clothes tumbled out, along with bottles of water and protein bars. “Bless you, Morgana.”

Merlin’s laughter bubbled up, causing Harry to look down at Merlin, his head cocked to the side like a dog hearing a strange noise for the first time.

“What?” he asked, bemused.

“Nothing,” Merlin said, shaking his head. He sat up, tugging off his pyjama top. Harry’s eyes widened and there was honest appraisal in his face now that they’d agreed this meant nothing.

“What?” Merlin echoed him.

“Nothing…” Harry dropped the blanket he was holding and returned his touch to Merlin’s skin. The fire of his touch reignited the cold places on Merlin, the ice in his chest thawing with Harry so close and skin to skin. Harry bit down on Merlin’s shoulder, and Merlin groaned, something obscene in the noise he made. “How do you like it?”

Merlin shuddered. The way Harry was purring in his ear was sinful, and he was already lost, his emotions long since tangled with the hormones rushing through them both. Things would never be the same again, and he just shook his head.

“Merlin,” Harry groaned, and Merlin realized Harry’s fever was returning.

“Any way, as long as it’s you,” Merlin blurted. Harry stared at him, then kissed him hard, kneeling between Merlin’s thighs like a penitent at altar.

He allowed Harry to push him back, onto his back with a pillow beneath his head, his hips up and legs splayed wanton. Harry tugged at his pyjama bottoms, taking them and his boxer briefs with them, Harry’s mouth leaving a hot trail through the ice in his stomach as the Knight kissed lower. He bit one of Merlin’s hips and Merlin cried out, his hips jerking upward.

“God, you’re so responsive,” Harry mumbled in wonder. He knelt beside Merlin, his own clothes gone and Merlin wondered at the jerky nature of time around them. He took the time, however, to admire the length of Harry’s legs, the way his thighs bunched. Harry sighed out as Merlin ran a gentle touch across the long scar that ran across the top of his right thigh, tracing the silvery line with his fingers.

“Come here,” Merlin said, asking instead of issuing an order. Still, Harry obeyed, straddling him again. “We’ll go slowly until this is done. And then…”

Harry didn’t let him finish the sentence, kissing him. Merlin groped for the lubricant, getting it open and slicking them both. They were too keyed up for anything but this, but even this felt good, pressed together. Merlin wrapped his hand around them, Harry’s cock sliding against his making him feel warm again. Harry groaned, giving an experimental thrust.

“Just like that,” Merlin gasped, keeping them steady as Harry started to move. The slide of skin on skin was near unbearable, generating too much heat, too fast. Merlin was overwhelmed, his eyes locked on Harry’s face, watching the shift of his expressions as he built a rhythm.

They were both done far too soon, Merlin spilling over his fingers with a curse and Harry following, his face buried in Merlin’s neck. He was sweating, trembling, and he didn’t bother to lift himself off Merlin immediately. Merlin took the time to just…relish the feeling of closeness he had right here, tangled limbs, Harry draped over him like a large cat. He took his free hand, the one that wasn’t messy, and ran it gently through Harry’s curly hair, free of its product.

“I’m sorry,” Harry whispered.

“Don’t,” Merlin replied. “Just get better.”

* * *

They discovered the room had a shower folded into the walls, and they each took turns getting cleaned up. Merlin rigged them a privacy screen, despite having seen each other already. Harry gave him a grateful smile, and his bruised and bitten shoulders disappeared behind the blanket first to attend to himself.

Merlin put his head in his hands while he heard the water run. Bless Morgana for getting them privacy. There were no cameras in this room, no observation whatsoever. He could spin this as they were helping each other out, and neither would talk about it again.

Something about it bruised his heart, like he’d taken it in both hands and squeezed. Harry would return to his life as a Knight. Merlin would return to R&D.

As he pondered, the cold came creeping back in; it was a chill that nothing but Harry seemed to disperse. It must be the partner to whatever Yusupova had injected Harry with, and Merlin sighed. They couldn’t withstand it for long, both of them getting muzzy-headed and slurring their words. They seemed attuned to each other, too.

They’d been together for close to twenty-four hours, pushing each other through everything they could think of to abate the onrush of hormones for just a little while longer. Harry had taken to sleeping curled up against Merlin, Merlin’s hand in his hair. It was almost real enough that Merlin wanted to store that little bit in his memories for later, to when they returned back to their respective roles, standing across the divide of duty and class.

He didn’t notice that the shower had stopped, but the smell of Harry, freshly showered, invaded his nose, and he looked up to find Galahad standing clad in only a towel, holding a hand out to him.

“Harry—”

“Come get warm, Merlin.”

Merlin took Harry’s hand and followed him into the shower.

* * *

“Harry,” Merlin panted, his head thrown back as Harry thrust harder into him. Harry didn’t slow, keeping the pace going as he pressed as deep into Merlin as he could. Merlin gripped the pillow behind him, heels digging into Harry’s backside as Harry chased yet another orgasm. “God, Harry, _please_.”

Merlin was beautiful, Harry could admit here, watching the way his biceps flexed as his hands—god, those hands—gripped the pillow. Harry growled, wringing another moan from Merlin and he thrust harder, his hands braced against the floor beside Merlin’s ribs.

“Come for me,” Harry grated, the barked order accompanied by him skimming his hand along the length of Merlin’s cock. He pumped it once, twice—and Merlin gave a muffled cry as he stuffed his fist in his mouth, his eyes screwed shut as he shuddered against Harry’s fingers.

Harry followed him, slowing his thrusts as he pulsed warm and wet inside the wizard. He was no longer overheated, their temperatures returning to normal as soon as the afterglow set in. Harry gave a few more languid thrusts, using one of the washcloths that had been delivered a few hours ago to clean them both up as he pulled free.

He slid Merlin back into soft sweats, donning his own as he tossed the washcloth in the makeshift laundry pile by the door. He joined Merlin, curling close and wrapping an arm lazily across the wizard’s muscled torso. Merlin was surprisingly fit, with a thick torso that was nothing like Harry’s carefully cut physique. It was appealing in a way it shouldn’t have been, though Harry didn’t consider that part as he pillowed his head on Merlin’s shoulder.

Merlin was solid, grounded, where Harry was motion. Both powerful in their own ways.

He gave a soft sigh as Merlin’s fingers found his hair, stroking through his curls. He’d given up trying to tame his hair with product right at this moment. Besides, it felt better when Merlin petted through his hair without the pomade in it. Instead, he nosed closer and sighed again.

“All right?” Merlin asked. “No fever?”

Harry shook his head. “Just…exhausted. Like running a marathon you haven’t trained for.”

Merlin chuckled. “Aye. You should sleep while you can.”

Harry nodded. Though he was tired, he hesitated to let sleep claim him, instead listening to the sound of easy breathing as Merlin drifted off. Harry raised his head, but Merlin didn’t stir, his profile muted in the low lights of the cell. It must be night time, though Harry had lost most of his sense of time since being drugged.

But this…

He leaned down, brushing the softest kiss against the corner of Merlin’s mouth. He’d tried, over and over again, to tell himself that it was strictly the hormones, that it was just circumstances.

The fevers were farther and farther between now, the periods of lucidity more and more frequent. They were coming to the end of their time together, but all Harry could see was ten years of the past.

Merlin had been there for all of them. Through so many dangerous missions. Wishing him a happy birthday over the comms. Celebrating Christmas with a quiet voice in his ear as he huddled in cover, keeping an eye on a target. Passing the years with Merlin was a constant.

He hadn’t wanted to let Merlin die. It wasn’t about himself. It was about the man beneath him, sleeping peacefully with his lashes fanned against the hard planes of his cheeks, the severity of his mouth softened in his restful state.

“I love you,” he whispered, trying to see how it tasted in his mouth. He hadn’t spoken those words to anyone but his mother in decades, and now…they felt heavy, like the weight of stones in his chest and pouring from his mouth like an avalanche.

Merlin mumbled something in his sleep, turning to face Harry, and Harry pulled the blankets up tighter around them both, wishing for just a little more time.

A little more time and a lot more courage.

* * *

Morgana roused them the next morning with a proper release. She’d been monitoring the air from their cell for traces of the hormone, and once it was gone, she’d felt confident enough to see to them herself.

They were ushered into separate rooms and Morgana gave them both a once-over. Fluids, bed rest, and a week off work were the prescription (along with a scolding for Merlin for putting himself into such a position). Merlin was just grateful for a real, proper shower, and actual clothes that weren’t sweats.

Merlin’s first order of business was to get home to his dogs and get breakfast.

Yusupova was in the wind, but it wasn’t like he’d been forbidden from doing his own research at home, and healing would happen if his mind wasn’t constantly circling around the problem of Harry Hart.

He hadn’t seen him since they split off for their separate quarters at the estate, and Merlin was…thankful for that. He was sore and aching, but it was a pleasant pull, a good reminder of what had just happened. It would last him for a few days and he would be over it, content with his decision so long as Harry was safe. He was feeling weak, but as he let himself into his flat and found his dogs waiting for him, he felt…better. Glad to be alive.

Maybe that was how he healed. He let Artemis and Apollo have bits of his toast, while Bernie got some of his bacon as apology. He hadn’t meant to be gone for so long, though he had a dog walker on hire for such occasions. Now, all three dogs were sleeping at his feet, he had a fresh cup of tea, and a week to find and make life hell for Natalia Yusupova.

A knock at his door startled him and the dogs, who rose and trotted right for the front door as he rose. As he peered through the peephole at the front of his door, he was surprised to see Harry standing on his doorstep.

His brow knit. He’d never told Harry where he lived. In fact, he hadn’t told anyone where he lived, and he was fairly sure they didn’t care, so long as he was to work on time.

Cautiously, he pulled the door open, peering out at Harry. Like Merlin, Harry looked tired, with deep bruises beneath his eyes. Unlike Merlin, Harry had opted to don his bespoke, to rearmor himself against the world around him. He was swathed in a wool overcoat against the rain that threatened, and the umbrella he carried was one of Merlin’s signature Rainmakers. Their eyes met, brown-on-hazel and Merlin felt a chill creep into his system, a phantom of what he’d been through just hours before.

“Galahad?” Merlin murmured. “What are you doing here?”

“Fishing for an invite inside, perhaps,” Harry replied. “May I?”

Merlin opened the door wider and allowed Harry entry into his flat. Harry stepped in and placed the Rainmaker in the holder by the door.

“Tea?” Merlin asked, locking the door behind Harry.

“Ta, Merlin.”

There was a bubble of crazed laughter threatening to burst from his chest at the old mannerisms. How could Harry bounce back so quickly? Instead of giving into it, however, he showed Harry the sitting room and excused himself to the kitchen to make a cup of tea for his guest.

He remembered how Harry took his tea; one spoonful of sugar and a splash of milk, and he returned shortly with the mug. He found Harry with Apollo’s head on his knee, the Doberman shooting him a besotted look as Harry stroked his head. Merlin chuckled and set the mug down on the table between the chairs, joining Harry by sitting in the other one.

“You’ll never get away now,” Merlin said. “He adores ear rubs and he’s a glutton for them.”

“Perhaps that isn’t a bad thing,” Harry said. His voice was gentle, and he turned his head to look at Merlin.

“Oh? Stuck in my flat forever at the whims of a slightly chubby Doberman?” he asked.

“I mean, as long as it’s your flat,” Harry said, his tone bland.

Merlin felt a swoop in his stomach and he cleared his throat, reaching for his own warm mug of tea. Harry did the same, still stroking Apollo’s head.

“Why is it,” Harry began, looking down into the mug after he’d taken a sip of tea. He hesitated, then turned his gaze to Merlin again. “Why is it that you know exactly how I take my tea?”

“Habit, I suppose,” Merlin said softly. “You’ve arrived late often enough that it seemed like the right thing to have ready for you.”

“Then can you tell me how Gawain takes his tea?” Harry asked.

“Erm.” Merlin thought about that, blinking at Harry. “Can’t say that I do. He’s never asked me for tea.”

“Mm,” Harry said, taking another sip and setting the mug down. “Perhaps I botched this. I was always shit at this kind of thing when it meant something.”

He reached out, his long fingers finding Merlin’s hand. Merlin allowed Harry to lace their fingers together, the fine scars on Harry’s knuckles just one more detail he’d just now noticed. Harry let his thumb brush over Merlin’s index finger for a long moment before he looked up at him.

“I seem to be compromised,” Harry announced, though his tone was fond, something in it making Merlin’s breath catch in his throat. “I hoped, when we were locked away, that you would say yes. Not for me. But because I wanted to save you. I wanted you to live.”

“That was why I said yes,” Merlin admitted. “Not because I wanted to live, but because I wanted you to survive.”

“How long, Merlin?” Harry asked. Merlin stopped short, his mouth forming words but his brain not allowing them past his lips. “How long have you been alone when I could have been here, too?”

“I—” Merlin inhaled. “I didn’t think that there would have been anything there. Being attached to your charge is…there are rules against this kind of thing.”

“Rules and I don’t tend to…get along,” Harry said. Merlin was aware that Harry still had his hand. “But you and I, we do. We’ve been colleagues for ten years.”

“Aye,” Merlin said, his voice shaking. “But please don’t do this because you feel you have to, Harry—”

“I’m not,” Harry said. He brought Merlin’s knuckles to his lips, and the reverence with the action stole Merlin’s breath. “I’m here to ask you if you’d like to go to dinner, sometime. And we…figure out where to go from here. But it should be your decision.”

“Of course,” Merlin said. He looked up at Harry, swallowing as the other man met his gaze. There was a long, long moment, stretched out as though they were dipped in amber, warm and sweet like honey. “Harry?”

“Yes.”

“I’ve decided,” Merlin said.

Harry said nothing, waiting for Merlin to say it. He’d already known the answer, after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Someone told me to kick up the angst. ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯


	17. Telephone (Merlahad, no established universe)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> If you can't say anything nice, don't say anything at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For msilet -- you might have been too lazy to put it into words, but I sure wasn't. I hope this is okay.
> 
> Based on this [fantastic post](https://lywinis.tumblr.com/post/169927635402/merlin-receives-the-darnedest-texts-at-night) which made me laugh harder than I have in days.

Merlin felt his mobile buzz in his pocket as he was finishing the wiring on the new motherboards. Small enough to fit on his thumbnail, they would provide internet connectivity and boost the reception of their spectacles’ radios even deep underground—a much needed improvement in this case. He sighed and tapped the side of his spectacles, calling up his mobile’s interface.

A text from Eggsy. While it could probably wait until morning, Merlin accessed it anyway, wanting to get whatever inane question Eggsy had out of the way now so he could finish his work.

_I’ve figured it out, Rox. Harry’s in love with Merls, has been for years. x_

Merlin froze.

A whole host of emotion welled up, most of which he’d carefully boxed up and put away with other memories of his youth. He frowned, setting the tiny motherboard down from where he’d been attempting to fit it into the bottom of the Bremont without mucking up the timing.

This would have to be nipped in the bud. He called up his reply function and tapped out a terse message.

_This is Merlin. He most certainly has not._

There was a pause, and then the indicator that Eggsy was typing. Merlin sighed, knowing that they’d have to have a conversation about this. Now was not the time for it, what with it being half-past ten in the evening, but it was something to knock out while Eggsy was nice and repentant in the morning.

_OMG Merls, I’m so sorry. Wrong number!_

There was a string of little emoji attached, but Merlin ignored them, his temper flaring. He reined it in, knowing that it was mostly harmless, at least coming from Eggsy. Still. An example would have to be made.

Wrong number, his pasty Scottish arse.

_Please refrain from gossiping about your co-workers._

Merlin returned to picking at the watch, his brow furrowed as he worked. There had been the rumor, way back when they’d begun to work together. Surely, two men who worked as well as Galahad and Merlin did would have been involved at some point, they whispered. Blood ran high in the heat of the moment, adrenaline made the moral center fuzzy.

Chester King had even made inquiries, but there had been nothing untoward between himself and Harry.

There was nothing there but almost four decades of steadfast friendship. Merlin sighed, willing that thought away. No sense in being upset by it – Eggsy had no way of knowing, and the boy truly hadn’t meant any harm. Still, when the next message from Short Menace popped up, Merlin decided to let him sweat for a little while.

_I’m so sorry, Merlin. Really. Please don’t be angry with me._

_We’ll talk about it tomorrow. Good night, Eggsy._

* * *

Merlin sighed again when his mobile buzzed once more. Eggsy had gone silent, thankfully, but now here was their current Arthur, coming to question him about his bloody boy’s behavior. Merlin frowned hard, opening the text from the One-Eyed Menace (one of many less-than-fond nicknames Harry had earned over the years, if Merlin was totally honest.)

_Merlin, what happened between you and Eggsy? He seemed rather distressed when he called me._

Merlin grunted in displeasure. Of course the boy had called Harry. He rubbed his forehead, feeling the beginnings of a headache forming. Harry had the bad habit of picking apart his legacy’s actions, excusing far too many of them. But he also trusted Merlin to know what was right for Eggsy as well.

_It was nothing major. He sent me gossip he’d intended for Roxy and he’s going to learn a lesson about what it means to whisper about someone behind their backs._

He snapped the cover onto the back of the Bremont with a little more force than necessary, which made him wince. No sense taking out his displeasure on the tools; it was hardly the watch’s fault that he was upset.

_It must have been something quite terrible if he’s this worried. He did ask that I tell you not to murder him._

Merlin blew out an explosive sigh. Really?

He thought about it, then. He did project a certain aura of menace during training in order to impress upon recruits that his instructions were for their survival. Perhaps he’d gone a little too hard on Eggsy. He’d pushed for Lee’s son to succeed where his father hadn’t, after all. It had also been Merlin’s personal recommendation that Eggsy become the new Galahad after—

He closed his eyes. The slash of grief was still there, fresh in his memory. That gunshot should have proven fatal, but Statesman had rescued their current Arthur. He inhaled, reminding himself that things were good now. Better, in fact. Kingsman was rebuilding and even thriving.

_I’m not going to kill the boy, Arthur. But he does need to learn a lesson._

_It’s rare to see your temper like this. What did he send you?_

_Harry._ He sent the text without thinking, flicking it off with a pass of his hazel eyes and wishing he could recall it. Harry would only see it as a challenge.

_How long have we known each other, Merlin? I can’t exactly condone this punishment if I don’t know what was said._

Merlin sighed. Harry was, in fact, correct in his assessment. He just wished that the subject matter was less…sensitive.

_Merlin._

_I can’t very well scold your protégé if you’re resorting to wheedling me for information, Arthur._

_Please? I can’t help if I don’t know what’s going on, and this should be within my purview._

The please did it. Harry rarely asked for things, and while the text was ambiguous, Merlin sensed his sincerity. When Harry did ask, it was always courteous, but this was…more personal somehow.

Merlin tapped out his next text and hit send before he could change his mind.

_He said that you’ve been in love with me for years. I refuted the notion on your behalf._

_Oh._

And that was that. Silence reigned for one minute, then two. At the five-minute mark, Merlin assumed that Harry was currently tearing into Galahad and almost regretted telling him. Instead, he returned to what he was doing.

When next he looked up, the clock was nearing half-past two. Far beyond the time he should have been resting, and Merlin rubbed at his eyes. He almost missed the next texts, and would have if his mobile hadn’t vibrated to alert him.

_But what if I have?_

A beat.

_Good night, Merlin._

Merlin’s heart leapt into his throat, a host of conflicting emotions whirling to life, made all the stronger by the possibility. The what if that could be real, it made his heartbeat thunder in his ears and dizziness swim across his vision before he could gather himself enough to shoot back a reply.

_Harry, what the heck?_

There was no answer. Merlin dialed Harry’s mobile, but it went straight to voice mail, the spymaster’s cultured tones instructing him to leave a message. He hung up in frustration, wishing for the days of rotary phones so he could slam the receiver back into the cradle.

_Harry, answer your bloody phone. I know that you’re awake, you’re not due back for another two hours._

He pushed himself back from the desk, turning his chair and angling for his prosthetics case. Two could play at that game. He was going to pin him to the wall like one of his butterflies.

_Fine. We’ll talk tomorrow. I expect to see you at HQ, Arthur._

He strapped on his prosthetics, already planning his attack.

* * *

Harry’s only indication that something was wrong was that Mister Gherkin wasn’t at the door to greet him when he let himself into his new flat. The cairn terrier was still a puppy, however, and it was likely the little chappie was asleep after a hard day of doing puppy things.

He dropped his keys in the bowl by the door, setting his mobile on the charger beside it. While he felt bad about leaving Merlin’s text messages unanswered, it wasn’t exactly how he’d wanted to tell the man. Honestly, if he’d had his way, Merlin would have never found out at all.

Harry had become a professional at keeping secrets, and that one was one of the bigger ones. He’d been overtired today, the pain pill Morgana had given him for managing his migraines making him bolder.

He’d essentially drunk-texted a confession and he really, really wished he could take it back.

He still felt groggy from the long car trip, and he shucked his woolen overcoat and hung it up, removing his suit coat as well. His shoulder harness rested heavy across his back, but rather than remove that as well, he left the Tokarevs where they were. He rolled up his shirt sleeves and hung his coat on the bannister so he could take it up to his bedroom with him.

A hot cup of tea with a nip of something to warm him up, and then he would head to bed.

He flicked on the kitchen lights and startled, leaping backward as he realized he wasn’t alone.

Merlin regarded him from his seat, legs crossed at the knees, prosthetics shining in the overhead light above the table. His chair was turned around so that he could hold Mister Gherkin, the puppy fast asleep in Merlin’s lap, all four legs in the air and a round, full belly exposed to Merlin’s stroking fingers. A cup of tea sat steaming beside him.

As Harry caught his breath, adrenaline burning the fatigue from his brain, he had a half-crazed thought that Merlin would have made an excellent villain. He’d even managed to angle his head so that the glare from the overhead light washed out the lenses of his spectacles, obscuring his eyes.

“Christ, Merlin.” Harry gripped the doorframe, his other hand over his heart. “What on earth are you doing here?”

“You know exactly why I’m here, Henry Edgar Hart.” Harry felt a cold chill run down his spine at his full name leaving Merlin’s lips. “You left me on read.”

Harry felt the color drain him from his face. He…may have made a tactical error.

“I—”

“Shh,” Merlin said, putting one of his long and elegant fingers to his lips.

Harry tried to deny the bolt of lust that shot through him, but Merlin was striding a fine line of dangerous and utterly desirable and Harry had never been able to resist either where Merlin was concerned. He set Mister Gherkin onto the little dog bed Harry kept in the kitchen, the puppy only snoring as Merlin set him aside. Merlin rose, his prosthetics giving an ominous hum as he rose to his full height, even with Harry’s own.

“You know what you did, and it’s about time we had a talk.”

He moved forward, advancing on Harry, who pressed his back against the wall. His spy instincts were screaming, but his heart was thundering too loudly in his ears to heed them, Merlin’s approach something that both thrilled him and sent a shiver through his whole body.

“How dare you,” Merlin growled. He reached up, seizing Harry’s shirt, crushing their mouths together as he pressed Harry up against the wall. Harry felt himself go boneless, surrendering to the insistent press of Merlin’s mouth, opening for him with the softest of groans. Merlin bit his lower lip, hard, almost a savage reminder that he was annoyed with Harry, but it only served to make Harry seek more contact, running his hands down Merlin’s torso to his hips, squeezing.

Merlin pulled back, licking his lips, and Harry felt an involuntary moan slip out of him at how wrecked he felt with such brief contact. Merlin looked almost unbearably smug as he heard it, then Harry had a finger in his face, wagging beneath his nose.

“We’ve been friends for nearly forty years. _How long_?” Merlin asked.

“1984.” Harry admitted, his voice a hoarse whisper.

“Christ,” Merlin muttered, running a hand over his shorn scalp.

“You?” Harry asked.

“…1983.” Merlin cut his eyes to the side. “Before I was passed over to join you in Barcelona.”

Harry sagged against the wall. “Christ. We’re a pair of old fools.”

“I didn’t want to jeopardize your career,” Merlin said. His voice had lost its rough edge, and one hand cupped Harry’s jaw. Harry frowned, tilting his head into Merlin’s palm.

“Can’t do much about it now,” Harry replied. “What are they going to do, demote me?”

Merlin’s laugh bubbled up, even as he tried to look serious. “You’re a menace.”

“You say that to everyone.”

“You’re my favorite menace.” Harry preened at that, though the sharp pinch to his hip made him gasp. “But you’re taking me to dinner to make up for this.”

“As you wish,” Harry said.

* * *

Roxy’s phone blaring the _Jaws_ theme made Eggsy shriek and dive for cover. Lancelot merely rolled her eyes and answered, letting her spoon drop back into her post-midnight bowl of ice cream.

“Lancelot,” she said.

_He’s there, I can see him under the duvet behind the couch._

“Mm, yes, sir.”

_Put me on speaker._

She tapped the speakerphone button and set the phone on the couch arm, picking her spoon up again. “Go for Galahad.”

“I know you can hear me, boy.” Merlin’s voice was very rough, almost a growl. “From now on, keep your gossip to yourself. I’ll see you in the office bright and early Monday morning, for your new assignment.”

Eggsy’s voice was muffled but loud enough to be heard. “Yes, sir.”

The line clicked and went dead, and Roxy pointed her spoon at him when he poked his head back up.

“Told you.”

* * *

_Rox, good news. I’m not dead. Merls and Harry have a dinner date tonight. They should thank me! xx_

Merlin sighed and rolled his eyes. Harry looked over from where he was lounging on Merlin’s old beaten sofa that he used for power naps when tinkering.

“Something wrong?” he asked.

“Your bloody boy,” Merlin groused, tapping out a reply.

_Wrong number again, Eggsy. What did I tell you about gossiping?_

Merlin’s chuckle might have been more vengeful than he intended, but there had to be a line drawn somewhere.

_Shit._ It was followed by a stream of emoji, mostly skulls and crossbones, but Merlin closed out of it.

“…One-Eyed Menace? You wound me, dove.” Merlin glanced over, catching Harry thumbing through his phone. He had no idea when the man had picked it from his pocket—

No, scratch that, he did. There was a fifteen-minute gap where Harry had kissed him senseless earlier, leaving his brain muddled and soft and full of affection for the pickpocket currently going through his texts. Some (not all, there was nothing Harry could do to annoy Merlin that badly) of that affection flew out the window.

“There, I fixed it,” Harry announced, handing it back to Merlin with a soft, lopsided smile that was so full of happiness that the irritation melted away. Merlin wouldn’t say he’d gotten soft in his old age but…

There was something to be said for being able to lean down and kiss the smile right off of Harry Hart’s smug face.

If that meant he dealt with Harry’s name bracketed in butterflies and heart emoji, well, so be it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Look, sometimes I HAVE to write things. This was one of those things.


	18. Patience (Percilot, Photographs and Memories verse, pre-TSS)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> James gets a lesson in waiting for good things to come his way.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains themes that may be triggering to some readers, including BDSM and one partner striking the other. If either of these disturb you, it might be worth it for you to skip these.
> 
> For the rest of you, please be kind. I haven't written anything like this in a long while.

It was rare that Martin ignored a phone call – and one coming in on his spectacles was of particular importance. He tapped the stem of his glasses, activating the line.

“Percival, reporting.” He went back to the mission report he was neatly filling in, his handwriting crisp and dark against the paper. There was no reason to turn in the reports late, after all, though he had a good two days to finish.

“Percival,” Harry’s voice came over the lines. Martin’s head snapped up, and he frowned. Harry calling him at such an hour meant that either it was an emergency or— “You really should remember to get your tweed pressed.”

…or it was the other thing.

Martin stifled a sigh, knowing that Harry was only sending him the warning before he bodily ejected James from his office. They’d naturally fallen upon codewords for ‘come and fetch your significant other’ so as not to alert listening ears. Informing Martin that his tweed needed to be pressed, for instance, meant that James was either in need of his partner at his bedside because he’d come back injured—an all too frequent occurrence—or that James was behaving an awful lot like a brat who wasn’t getting enough attention and he was currently annoying Galahad to distraction.

As Martin had seen James returned from his mission in South Africa with nothing worse than a cut across his cheek, he would bet a glass of good scotch that it was the latter.

He did sigh then. “It’s two in the afternoon, Galahad. I’ve got several more reports to finish.”

“As do I, Percival, but this errand doesn’t seem to _want to wait_.”

"Why are your reports prioritized over mine?"

"Because I’m older than you."

"Ah, I see. and you wish to enjoy your remaining years."

He’d pay for the snark later, he knew, as soon as Harry’s tone took on a peevish note.

"...I think you forget, Percival, that seniority means I have a higher bid than yours when it comes to missions. so, unless you'd like to be handed that three-month mission to Siberia that I don't really care to undertake, then you will come here and retrieve your... _tweed_."

Martin frowned and gathered the rest of his paperwork into a folder, depositing it into his briefcase along with his laptop and charger. It seemed that his plans were changing, after all.

“Understood, Galahad, have it ready and I’ll swing by and pick it up.”

“My thanks, Percival.” Harry’s line clicked to silence and Martin made sure everything was neat before he closed and locked it. He rose, stopping by the estate secretary’s office to inform Igraine that he would be out today and most of tomorrow, as he had business to attend to, and so she should hold his calls.

As he strode through the halls, he couldn’t quite tamp down his annoyance with James. Instead of lashing out, however, he decided to turn this into a teaching moment. It would only help James in the long run if he developed some patience.

He rapped twice on Harry’s door, the senior Knight’s office on the opposite end of the building, situated more closely to Merlin’s entrance to R&D. As one of the more senior Knights, it made sense that Harry would choose his office with a little more privacy, away from the normal bustle, though the proximity to Merlin was more than just a bonus, as both they and James and Martin knew.

“Enter,” Harry called, sounding frazzled.

Martin stepped in to find James seated on the floor, leaning his back against Harry’s desk and happily chattering away. He beamed up at Martin, only for the smile to fade as he took in Martin’s severe expression.

“Good afternoon, Galahad. I’ve come to fetch my tweed.”

Calmly, Martin closed the door to Harry’s office, Galahad’s brown eyes fixed on Martin, just like Martin’s gaze was locked on James.

“ _You will go home, right now. You will kneel in the sitting room and you will wait for me. You will not move_.” Martin switched to Italian, the flow of syllables past his lips like liquid. James’s eyes clouded, but he gave a stiff nod and rose, his movements jerky as he brushed past Martin and exited. Martin gave James a beat to move away from the door, and then cocked his head at Harry. “I’ll be taking that mission to Siberia anyway—the cold is bad for elderly joints.”

“Sod off, Percival,” Harry said, his brow jumping as he picked up his pen to resume writing. “…and thank you.”

“Of course,” Martin replied. He adjusted his tie and bid his goodbyes to Harry, stepping out and into the hallway once more. It was empty; James had taken his command to heart. Good. He strode down to the lower level, noting that one of the bullet trains had already departed.

Nodding his approval, he seated himself in a second one, crossing his legs at the knee and setting his briefcase at his feet before the door hissed closed and he was shot toward London.

* * *

Martin Gainsborough was a meticulous man. He knew that eyes were on him, and not necessarily friendly eyes, though they were allied. The cab drivers belonged to a pool employed by Kingsman, and while he knew several by name, gossip would have been unavoidable. And so it was that he instructed the driver to drop him off at his own flat.

Martin dismissed him, saying he wouldn’t need their services for the rest of the day. He went into his flat, fed his dog, walked her, and ran an errand to the grocer’s on the corner before he finally hailed a normal cab and loaded both the dog and his paper sack of groceries into the back along with himself.

It was more than an hour since he’d dismissed James to home, but James also had his own preparations to make. By the time he and Madeline arrived, it was nearly four, but there was only one lamp lit in James’s flat—the sitting room, as he’d instructed.

Martin used his key and let himself in. Madeline went to go find Clancy and give him a greeting kiss as soon as Martin got her lead off, but Martin took his time, hanging up his coat and removing his suit jacket. His vest clung to his waist like a lover, a benefit of bespoke, and Martin stopped in front of the hallway mirror to roll up his sleeves.

He tucked them at the elbow, baring his forearms, and removed his watch. He decided to leave his shoulder holsters, as this was a learning experience and danger always heightened the process, drove home the lesson. He pocketed both the timepiece and the keys, at last moving into the sitting room.

James was kneeling on a cushion in the middle of the room, using the rug as a center point, his hands fisted on his knees and his head bowed. His jaw worked, the only indication he’d heard Martin enter. Martin took his time, circling the room. The curtains had been drawn, and instead of acknowledging James immediately, Martin went to the sideboard and poured himself a measure of the good whisky James kept.

While not a ’62 Dalmore, it was still an excellent Macallan, and Martin took a moment to inhale the scent and swirl it a bit in his glass before he turned to James at last.

“ _I trust you’ve had a chance to think on why you’re here_ ,” Martin said. James shivered, the movement rippling up his back and into his shoulders. He hadn’t disrobed; that wasn’t a part of Martin’s orders, after all. “ _Tell me, what are you being disciplined for_?”

“I…don’t know,” James admitted. His voice had gone thick and husky, the rawness of his tone serving to spur Martin into movement. He moved around the sofa, stopping directly in front of James. James didn’t raise his eyes, but Martin’s hand went to his jaw, framing the lovely masculine line of it, feeling the stubble there, before he seized James’s chin and forced his eyes upward.

Blue eyes were blown nearly black with the size of James’s pupils, and his partner swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing.

“ _You were impatient—you couldn’t wait for me to finish the paperwork that needed done_ ,” Martin chided him, continuing with his speech in Italian, to ensure James paid attention and to drive the point home. “ _And not only towards me, you brought Galahad into this, forcing him to call me. Therefore, I feel that a lesson should be learned, don’t you_?”

James gave a slow, unsure nod.

“ _I am unhappy with your behavior, James. Go upstairs, get dressed, and kneel by the chair. I will be up shortly_.”

James swallowed, but he rose when Martin released his chin, shuffling past him and towards the stairs. Martin carried his groceries into the kitchen, setting up food for dinner later. Much later, by the look in James’s eyes. He was going to need the lesson.

By the time Martin arrived upstairs, glass of whisky in one hand and his briefcase in the other, James was where he should be. He had another cushion, and he knelt by the armchair in the corner of the room that faced the bed, the reading lamp lit and framing James’s hair and shoulders in a spill of golden light. His head was bowed, the quiet inhale of breath almost unnoticeable in the scope of things.

Martin noticed, and he paused in the doorway.

He took a moment to admire the sight; James’s shoulders, ridged with tight muscle, bunched under his scrutiny, though Martin did not acknowledge James as of yet. He was bare-chested, dressed only in a loose pair of dark blue cotton trousers, his palms on his knees and his head bowed. His feet were bare and tucked beneath him, a compact tuck of muscle for a man who could explode into motion to take down six assailants at once and fire shots from a moving car like he was sitting still.

Martin entered the bedroom and shut the door with the quiet click of the latch.

Still refusing to acknowledge James just yet, he set his briefcase down on the small table set up beside the plush, dark green armchair. His glass joined it, and Martin took a moment to clean his glasses before he got down to business. Replacing his spectacles on his face, he turned toward the armoire across from the bed and withdrew his first tool. From a secret compartment in the bottom of the wooden cabinet, he pulled a leather strap. About three inches across, six inches long not counting the handle, and made of buttery soft brown leather, it was folded over into the wrapped leather of the handle, making it a compact, solid flogger.

Martin closed the armoire and turned back to the chair. It was almost as though James were holding his breath. He set the flogger on the arm of the chair and seated himself.

Almost as an afterthought, he turned his gaze to James, the soft crown of his head visible just above the plush arm rest of his seat.

“ _Rise, and lay across my knees_ ,” Martin said. “ _We’ll start here. If you’re good and accept your punishment and absorb the lesson properly, there will be a reward_.”

James swallowed, rising and placing himself across Martin’s knees exactly where he wanted him. It left James draped across his thighs, still almost kneeling, James’s palms braced on the floor. Martin took his left hand and slid it along James’s spine, feeling James inhale as his fingers moved toward the waistband of his trousers.

He tugged James’s trousers down until they were just below the swell of his arse, revealing the barest bit of James’s thighs. Martin paused for a moment, as in thought, when in reality he was taking in the flex of James’s muscle as the other struggled to stay as Martin instructed. Idly, his left hand traced over James’s flank, and then he struck.

His left hand made a sharp slap against the curve of one of James’s arsecheeks, causing James to buck forward in surprise. Hastily, he righted himself, and Martin barely gave him enough time before he struck again. His palm stung, but that was neither here nor there, watching the rapid rise and fall of James’s chest, the sharp pants he gave. He alternated his strikes with an almost clinical precision, using his right hand to reach out and pick up the whisky, giving it a sip as he worked. He kept his face impassive, eyes glittering behind his spectacles as James squirmed across his thighs.

A half-dozen strikes and James let out a soft whimper, burying his face against the cloth of Martin’s trousers. Martin paused, setting down the whisky and picking up the flogger.

“ _Well done_ ,” he murmured. “ _Two more, and then I’ll reward you_.”

Martin let James prepare himself for the heavier strikes, playing the cool leather across the pinkened and heated flesh of James’s arse. A sharp intake of breath and a roll of James’s hips that was more than likely involuntary told him that James was ready, and he struck him, bringing the flogger down on James’s arse in a neat line. The crack of the leather was jarring in the quiet of the room, but the moan that James gave was enough to reassure Martin. Once more, and James whined, rutting against Martin’s thigh. He could feel the weight of James’s erection against his leg, though he ignored it.

He set the flogger down, out of reach to indicate they were done. Reaching out with his right hand, he stroked his fingers through James’s hair, only to have the other man lean into his hand.

“ _Very well done_.” Martin tugged James’s trousers back up, running his palm across his arse and squeezing gently. “ _Get undressed and climb up on the bed_.”

James obeyed, stripping his trousers and dropping them into the hamper before he turned down the bed and crawled in, sprawling out on the large bed and waiting for Martin, his eyes still large and dark. Martin couldn’t stop the hunger that rose at the sight of James, breathing heavily and gripping the sheets before Martin had even had more of a chance to touch him.

He let his eyes roam down, across the line of James’s chest, following the trail of hair there. James really was a beautiful man, sandy-haired where Martin was dark, tanned where Martin was paler because he never saw the sun. His cock rested heavy against his stomach, still half-hard and twitching. While he’d never understood before meeting James what people meant when they said that their partners made their mouths water…he understood now.

He understood a lot more after Cambridge.

Martin rose, moving for the tool cabinet again, coming back with the slim bottle of lubrication and one of the newer toys that James had invested in. The bed was a four-poster made of solid walnut, and for good reason – when Martin retrieved the leather cuffs that James had brought back from Madrid, James gave a stifled groan as he realized what was in store for him.

“ _This is a lesson in patience, turtledove_ ,” Martin murmured against his ear, taking one of James’s hands and binding it with the leather cuff. Built for this, the cuffs had velvet linings and James would be quite comfortable. Still, as he moved around to the other side of the bed, he cupped James’s face. “ _Check-in_.”

“Green.” James’s voice was hoarse, the whine in his throat unmistakable.

“ _If we should pause_?”

“Yellow.”

“ _If you need to stop_?”

“Teacup.”

“ _Good_ ,” Martin said. He couldn’t help himself and pressed his lips gently to James’s forehead. He bound James’s other wrist, leaving his wrists above his head, but not enough to cut off his circulation for a long, long while. “ _Lift your hips_.”

James obeyed, lifting himself and splaying out for Martin. Martin took his time, making it as slow as possible, for two reasons. One, because racing James to the finish line of an orgasm was a race he would lose, and two, he had plans for delaying that orgasm as it was.

James panted, squirming as Martin probed him with slick fingers. Martin took his time, opening James up with slow strokes of his index and middle fingers, scissoring him open. James hardly needed this much prep, not with how regularly they slept together, but Martin was nothing if not thorough. Besides, it was about the journey, not about the destination this time.

James lifted his hips higher as Martin added a third finger, pressing his palm against James as he worked him over.

James was nearly mewling as Martin determined that he was ready. He lubricated up the toy, designed to fill James up and rest against the prostate. He rose and moved to sit on the bed between James’s thighs, James’s legs trembling as he held himself open for Martin’s perusal. His arse was still a bright pink from Martin’s palm, and Martin thought he looked like quite the pretty picture tied to the bed and gagging for whatever Martin would give him.

Martin intended to give him quite a lot.

This toy was new, not used much in their play, and he was careful to tease James with it first. He let him feel the blunt head press against him, only to tug it away with a noise of censure as James tried to press onto it with a sinuous motion of his hips.

“ _What did I tell you, hm? Patience_.” Martin ran his index finger along the underside of James’s cock, light enough to be featherlike, not enough pressure to get anything serious out of it, and James hissed like he’d been scalded.

“Please, Martin,” James gasped, sweat standing out on his brow.

“ _Soon enough, turtledove_.” Martin returned to what he was doing, slowly circling James with the toy. James’s cock jumped, twitching with the frantic beat of his partner’s heart. Measured presses of his hands meant that the toy was seated to its flared base inside James far more slowly than the bound man would like. Martin would argue that twenty minutes was hardly an eternity.

To drive the point home, he rose and moved to the en suite, washing his hands of the remaining lubrication, his eyes on James from the open door. His partner squirmed, the twitching of his hips and thighs meaning that James was still working out how best to get himself off without Martin’s help, and Martin dried his fingers on the hand towel and returned to his seat, withdrawing the remote from his trouser pocket as he did.

He crossed his legs at the knee, clucking softly at James in disappointment. Slowly, he thumbed the intensity lever on the toy up to one. The toy gave a low hum and James bucked, saved from shooting straight off the bed by Martin’s foresight in lashing him to the bedposts.

“F-fuck, **_Martin_**.” It was a keen, James’s head thrown back, throat working as he swallowed. The vibration on the toy was quite powerful, Martin noted, taking a sip from his glass. He’d have to recommend it to the site who’d suggested it. He glanced at his watch, the remote dangling lazily from his hand.

He set the remote to the side, watching James squirm on the lowest setting, toes curling as the toy pressed right up against his prostate. He was likely seeing stars, the way his head was thrashing.

“ _Does it feel that good_?” Martin asked, his tone carefully calculated to sound bored. He reached down and plucked up his briefcase, fishing out his paperwork and pulling out the lap desk James kept up here. He uncapped his pen, glancing over at James, who was staring at him with an incredulous expression.

“Y-you’re doing paperwork?” James asked. It was a little ridiculous, Martin had to admit, James bound naked to his bed and writhing with a toy pounding at him from within, all while Martin worked a few feet away, but…

Martin arched a dark brow at him. “ _You interrupted me._ ”

He reached for the remote again, changing the frequency of the vibration and James’s reply was lost in a litany of garbled syllables interspersed with a curse as the steady thrum of the vibration turned into a staccato beat that was off kilter without warning. He arched off the bed, back bowing, and Martin hummed to himself and began filling in boxes. He kept an eye on James as he squirmed, backing off the intensity or frequency if James looked to be getting close.

Soon enough, James settled into a puddle of quiet moaning, shivering as he was brought to the edge, over and over again, but never allowed to cross. Martin signed off on the sheet he was working with, placed everything neatly back into his briefcase, and rose.

James was glassy-eyed and slack-jawed, only protesting when Martin uncuffed him. He didn’t reach for his cock, instead laying there in a haze of arousal. Martin pulling the toy free and setting it aside to be washed after meant that James’s awareness came back just enough to complain, though he hushed quickly enough when Martin kissed him, nipping his lower lip. He helped shift James to the edge of the bed, kneeling between his thighs as James shuddered. A few strokes of Martin’s hand, and James was hard again, the swipe of his tongue making James keen like the toy was back inside him.

Martin swallowed James down without further ado, feeling his lover hit the back of his throat and drawing a satisfied noise from Martin. James had a hair trigger after being subjected to the lengthy session, and it was the work of a moment to wring his orgasm from him.

Martin listened for the flutter of James’s breath, for the hitch, and he swallowed as James came with a moan. He ran his hands along the tops of James’s thighs to his hips, rubbing the lovely strip of muscle that bridged his Adonis belt.

He pulled back, resting his cheek against James’s thigh for a moment while he gathered himself.

“James,” he said softly, switching back to English for the first time since the estate.

“Mm.” James didn’t move, but the rise and fall of his chest was reassuring.

“Would you like a bath?” Martin asked.

“…mhm.”

* * *

Once Martin had drawn the bath, he added some scented oils to the water to make it pleasant. Sandalwood and pine, and he inhaled, closing his eyes for a moment. Only now did he remove his holsters, hanging them in the bedroom on the rack behind the door. James was limp and still halfway deep inside his own head, but he and Martin managed to get him into the bathroom and into the tub regardless. James had splurged on a lovely sunken tub, and he settled into it now, eyes half-lidded as he watched Martin gather his shaving equipment from the counter and settle on the small stone lip of the tub behind him.

“Too hot?” Martin asked. James shook his head, the edges of his mouth curling up in a small smile. As much as James loved being manhandled, Martin thought that perhaps he enjoyed these small comforts much more. The small intimacies Martin would have shared with him regardless, but it was contrasted against the intensity of what had happened just minutes prior that seemed to drive home that it was just play – something at the end of the day to unwind, to decompress and sort through.

Martin lathered the shave brush, his dark brows crinkling in the middle in concentration as he worked the soap onto James’s jaw and throat. He set aside the ceramic cup and stropped the razor, then went to work on the stubble on James’s jaw. There were no sounds save their quiet breathing, the ripple of the water, and the scrape of the straight razor against James’s skin.

There was a fragile sort of peace there. Yes, they both had their idiosyncrasies, but it was where they joined that made them special. James would forgive Martin for not showing as much as he did, emotionally; Martin could tell him, in other ways.

The press of fingers against skin, the devotion in his gaze. The quiet scrape of a razor on stubble. Martin was not a man of words, not where this was concerned. If asked, he would feel his throat close and his tongue thicken in his mouth, unable to articulate.

Instead, he used a small ceramic pitcher and gently dampened James’s hair so he could wash it. Slowly, methodically, as he scrubbed circles into James’s scalp, the other man seemed to resurface. He returned to himself, his blue eyes sleepy as Martin began to rinse the shampoo from his hair.

“How are you feeling?” Martin asked, cupping a hand over James’s eyes while he poured the water in soapy rivulets to sluice away the shampoo.

“Mm. Like dinner. What were you thinking?” James’s voice was quiet, rusty as though he hadn’t been hovering on the edge of orgasm and yelling about it for the past hour and a half.

“I brought home steak,” Martin answered. “Or I can call for takeaway.”

“Takeaway,” James said. Martin glanced down and saw James peering up at him. “More time for this.”

“As you wish,” Martin said, the smallest ghost of a smile touching his lips. “How are you feeling?”

“Boneless, if I’m honest.” James stretched, his toes peeking up from under the water as he flexed himself. “But…good. I’m good, darling.”

That was the reassurance that Martin needed, and he leaned in, kissing James’s lips softly. He pulled back and pressed more reverent ones to his cheeks and forehead, then soaped up a washcloth to take care of the rest of James’s bath.

* * *

With James bundled into his pyjamas and tucked into bed, Martin saw to his own sleepwear, staying within James’s line of sight. He ordered takeaway from James’s favorite Indian restaurant while he disrobed, fetching a t-shirt and a pair of James’s soft cotton sleep trousers. His clothing neatly hanging up, he saw to James’s own wardrobe and then crawled into bed beside him. James immediately turned to him and tangled their limbs, nosing against Martin’s chest and giving the most satisfied sigh that Martin had ever heard.

Martin stroked his hand against the back of James’s neck, allowing the peace that always followed these things to invade his senses. He knew that this was coping of his own making, and that the quiet in his head he found here was real.

James trusted him enough to see to this. It was grounding in a way that Martin had not expected, nor would he be able to articulate. But here, in the fading adrenaline and afterglow of the evening, he had found his equilibrium.

And if asked, he would be able to say, with steadfast surety, that he had found where he belonged. Martin Gainsborough was home.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As I said, please be kind, it's been a LONG time since I've written anything with BDSM themes and it really shows. OTL Still, I got two prompts that were almost the same so I mushed them together. If you liked it, please feel free to leave me a comment or kudos.
> 
> I hope you enjoyed, Constant Readers.


	19. Howl (Percilot, Werewolves of London AU)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> James is changing. Martin isn't sure how to feel about it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ***This piece contains elements of a/b/o style shifter dynamics, though it’s not true a/b/o because the concept as originally devised is horribly squicky for me so I made the necessary changes. If that bothers you, you might want to skip this one.***

Martin had sharper senses than most shifters, though that wasn’t surprising given his bloodline. What was surprising was that he’d trained himself to pick out nuance most shifters could only get when in their animal shape. He could sift through several scents in an instant and pick out the fresh one, and following his nose had never been an issue.

Which is why James could never sneak up on him, even in their play. Not that Martin could begrudge his mate trying; stalking one’s mate—to pop up and surprise them—was a common way that mated wolves showed affection. Still, James got closer than usual before Martin noticed his mate; the scent of pine, fur, and something that was unique to James invaded his nose moments before James wrapped his arms around Martin from behind and tugged him back into his office.

“Hello, James,” Martin said, the low rumble of appreciation he gave as his mate nuzzled at the back of his neck echoed in James’s own chest. He held up the folders he’d been carrying out to R&D. “I’m afraid I’ve got to get these to Merlin—”

“Later,” James growled in his ear. The growl was subtly different from before James’s capture, and it sent a frisson of want through Martin as James reached around him and threw the bolt. “I’ve come to see you.”

This was new. Ever since James’s return and subsequent recovery, he’d been exhibiting more and more traits that Martin associated with the alphas of the pack. While Gawain was the current alpha of Kingsman, their own little foursome (possibly six of them if one included Roxy and Eggsy) lacked that sort of leadership. Ever since Kentucky, their small pack’s alpha—and Kingsman’s alpha—was gone.

James seemed to be sliding into the role. It would make sense, given Merlin’s inability to shift, Eggsy and Roxy’s youth, and Martin’s own preference to operate in the shadows; James’s wolf sensed the void and was moving to fill the gap. Shifter pack dynamics were fluid; a shifter might slide from alpha to beta and back again many times in his lifetime, though it was rare to see it happen quickly. Because family groups changed and melded in human forms, their inner wolves had adapted to accommodate.

“You smell good,” James rumbled, taking the folders from Martin’s hands and tossing them on the table by the door. They landed carelessly, but in the next instant Martin couldn’t care less as James pressed him to the door he’d just locked, hands on Martin’s hips and pressing insistently against him, groin to backside. Martin resisted the growl that was in the back of his throat, resting his cheek against the cool wood of the door.

“What’s gotten into you?” Martin asked, turning his head as far as he could to meet James’s eyes. They were glowing a bright, molten gold. His wolf so close to the surface called to Martin’s own animal, and he groaned as James gave a slow roll of his hips against him.

“Hopefully I’ll be what’s gotten into _you_ ,” James said, his words marked with a rough sound from his throat. Martin stifled another noise as James’s left hand slid from his hip to the front of his trousers, palming his length through the bespoke’s fabric. Martin’s breath hitched, his ears flushing as James found him already hard and straining against his trousers. James’s smile was audible, and Martin felt it against the back of his neck as James sank his teeth gently into the muscle that bordered his spine.

Martin shuddered as his mate marked him. “James.”

“Mm,” James said, pulling back and giving a slow lap of his tongue against the marks he’d made. “I want you, Martin.”

“We should—”

“You should make sure your spectacles aren’t recording,” James said. He huffed a growl of laughter against Martin’s ear before nipping at the sensitive lobe. “Or don’t. I might want to watch it later.”

Martin shivered, rocking his hips back against James’s groin, feeling the swell of his mate’s erection against him. He was rapidly losing control of the situation and he knew it. His mate needed him, wanted him, and the moonsickness was so fresh in his mind that his own animal couldn’t resist the siren call of James’s words.

Six months ago, James had been dead. Now, here, he could feel the press of his hands again. He could hear the thunder of James’s heart, feel the weight of him against him. His resolve wavered and broke, leaving him to make a decision he didn’t normally make.

“I don’t have anything here,” Martin muttered. “We should—”

James let go of Martin’s hip and reached into his trouser pocket, withdrawing a slim tube of lubrication. Martin could feel James’s smile against his neck, and he huffed a small, impatient noise.

“How do you want me?” he asked, swallowing.

James let out a groan. “For breakfast, lunch, dinner, and afternoon tea, as often as I can get you, and in all ways.”

Martin rested his forehead against the door, the unexpected sentiment cauterizing something that had been aching in his chest. He chuckled softly, the words pure James before his capture, and he turned in his mate’s arms, cupping James’s face and kissing him. Something soft turned again to that edge of hunger, and James loomed over him, a leg wedged between Martin’s thighs.

Slowly, Martin began to rock against the hard muscle of James’s thigh, the friction not enough but unable to help himself.

“I need you,” he said, his words swallowed in James’s kiss. James’s canines had elongated, his wolf pressing the boundary of locked away and free to the breaking point, and Martin licked into James’s mouth, letting one of those sharp teeth slice a thin line of blood onto his tongue.

James growled at the taste of copper, and pulled back, a trickle against his lips as he ran his thumb across Martin’s mouth.

“You have me,” James said. “Always.”

James’s hands slid to Martin’s trousers, working at the buttons. Martin helped, tugging his suit jacket off and tossing it in the general direction of the coat rack. The loss of control would be something he fretted over later, but with both animals so close to the surface, his own wolf demanding this as much as James was, it wasn’t the time for it. He shrugged out of his braces, pawing at his holsters—

“Leave them,” James murmured, kissing him again. He got Martin’s trousers unbuttoned and turned them both, backing them towards the couch by Martin’s fireplace. Large and plush, the couch held a pull-out for those days where Martin was needed on the estate, but James didn’t bother with that. Instead, he turned Martin, bending him right over the arm and pressing himself against his mate. Martin gave a choked noise, arching up on tiptoe at the feeling of James’s erection against him, and James smoothed hands down his flanks.

The sound of James’s belt unbuckling sent Martin’s skin rippling with gooseflesh. He was in his office, bent over his sofa’s arm in his shirttails, his trousers around his ankles, and his mate was grinding against him like his life depended on it. At this point, Martin thought it actually might, and the feel of James tugging down his boxer-briefs made him spread his legs subconsciously. James pressed a kiss to the small of his back, and the warm, slick feel of lubrication and the slow burn of James’s probing fingers made Martin roll his hips back against James’s hand.

This frenzy was new. The need to have James inside him right now was burning molten heat into his guts, his panting gaining a desperate edge as James withdrew his fingers, only to add more slick and keep going.

“James,” Martin barked. “ _I need you inside me right now, or I might die._ ”

James’s fingers spasmed, like he hadn’t been able to stop the stutter of the movement at Martin’s blurted exclamation in Italian, the rumble of acknowledgement followed with the heat of James against his flank, the press of the blunt head of James’s cock against him. Martin groaned and gripped the cushion beneath him as James slowly pressed into him, inch by inch. The prep helped some, but the feeling of fullness helped the most. James bottoming out left Martin sighing in relief, arched against James and slowly adjusting.

“God, I love how you feel around me,” James growled.

Martin rolled his hips back, his eyes falling shut as he felt James twitch inside him. His mate started slow, pulling out slowly and pressing back in, until he was giving Martin long, slow strokes that made his toes curl and his back arch. He could feel the fabric of the sofa slide against his cock, and the friction was another thin scraping against nerves that already felt far too raw.

“Fuck,” Martin spat, face half-buried in the cushions. “Faster, James.”

James obliged, taking hold of Martin’s hips and thrusting faster, the sound of skin slapping against his flanks and the deep, satisfied grunt James gave each time he slid home making Martin delirious. It was a moment that stripped him of all the walls he’d put up over the years, instead making him feel on fire from the inside out, James stoking it higher as Martin writhed against the sofa. He wasn’t going to last long in this state, but perhaps that was the point.

His mate had needed this, but apparently, so had he – his voice was hoarse as he cried out, muffled by the sofa cushions as James took him from behind, a hand sliding up his back and over the leather straps of his holsters, cupping the back of his neck. The grip was light, but it was a gesture of complete ownership. James squeezed and Martin’s legs nearly gave out, his groan needy and far more wanton than he had ever expressed before.

James’s hips stuttered, and he resumed with a new intensity, bending over Martin’s back and chasing his release as Martin squirmed beneath him. James’s hand was replaced with his mouth, and this time, when James sank his teeth into Martin’s neck, the bite was far from gentle.

Sharp canines pierced the muscle on the back of Martin’s neck and Martin’s world flashed white, the thread mixing pleasure and pain snapping and catapulting him over the edge as he came hard. He squeezed, feeling James slam home, pulsing warm and wet inside him. Panting, he lay there for a long moment, disheveled and utterly without thoughts save for the warm feeling of completeness and James pressed against his back, boneless and sated.

He came back to himself when he felt James pressing small kisses against the wound on his neck. He would heal quickly, but it was the thought that counted. He whined softly when James withdrew, only to settle when James returned with a warm flannel to clean him up.

Once they’d righted his clothing, he looked down at the sofa with a critical eye.

“You’re paying to get that dry cleaned,” he told James.

“Utterly worth it,” James replied with a kiss to the corner of Martin’s mouth. Martin found himself agreeing, at least for a moment.

* * *

“I’m sorry for my tardiness,” Martin said, handing over the files Merlin had requested two hours later. “Something came up.”

“Mm,” Merlin said, his hazel eyes roving over the turtleneck Martin had changed into to hide the bitemarks. “I’ll bet it did. Seems you got it back down, however.”

Martin’s face scrunched, but he reminded himself that his lateness meant Merlin was allowed at least one shot at him. He felt the beginnings of a flush crawl up his neck, though strangely, he wasn’t embarrassed by the fact that he’d done it.

It was yet another reminder his mate was home and whole, and Martin would endure hours of teasing just to have that, even for a minute.

He concluded it was worth it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, that was fun. I hope you're enjoying, Constant Readers!


	20. Poison (Merlahad, Photographs and Memories verse)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Five times Merlin held his tongue, and one time he didn't.

**Central – November 1983**

“You know that this will only jeopardize your position,” Thomas said.

Merlin looked up from where he was fiddling with the Rainmaker, reaching for a screwdriver. “Yes, sir, I’m aware.”

“You know that Chester will come down on you harder, because of your status?”

“Yes, sir, I’m aware.”

“You know this will only hurt if it continues. Relationships are forbidden.”

There was the briefest, most minor of hesitations as Merlin stared hard at the screwdrivers laid out on the mat next to him, as though he were selecting the proper size. Really, he was seething inside; no doubt Thomas had had no luck convincing Harry and so he was going to Merlin to drive his point home. And surely the man standing in his doorway, one hand casually in his pocket as though he were remarking on the weather rather than how Merlin chose to live his life, was cognizant of that.

For a moment, Merlin’s vision whitened and narrowed at the edges, as though his anger were pinching his perspective down to the core of his irritation and leaving him unable to see anything else. He took a deep breath, forcing his hand to unwind from where it was gripping the handle of the screwdriver tight enough to make his fingers creak and his knuckles go white.

He took a deep, cleansing breath, and turned in his chair, regarding Thomas standing in his doorway and giving him his full attention.

“Barcelona was a one-off,” he said. “I’m not going to ask how you found out, as I respect you more than that. But Galahad and I have parted ways, and it won’t continue here.”

For a moment, Thomas’s faded denim gaze held Merlin’s own, and he wondered if Lancelot could see into the bitter, jaded heart of him, the place where the coal he kept lit for Harry glowed dimly still. Then the moment passed and Thomas gave him a nod.

“Then we understand each other,” he said.

“Perfectly,” Merlin said.

* * *

 

**Harry Hart’s Townhome, London – June 1984**

Harry panted hard against Merlin’s shoulder, shuddering as Merlin stroked him, back bowed beautifully over the wizard as Harry sat in his lap. Harry was beautiful like this—not that he wasn’t beautiful even at the worst of times, titanic in both personality and skill—but here, in Merlin’s hands, he was a work of art. Mouth slightly parted, eyes the deep brown of melting chocolate gone black as his pupils blew wide, needy cries escaping his lips as Merlin controlled the waves of sensation that rolled through him. He writhed in Merlin’s lap, long fingers digging into Merlin’s shoulder blades, the cut of his nails nothing compared to the breathy string of curses in several languages pouring from Harry’s mouth like a filthy benediction.

“Fuck,  _fuck_ ,  ** _Merlin_** ,  _please_ ,” Harry begged, as Merlin ran a slicked hand over his cock, throbbing in his hand as Harry thrust erratically against his palm. “God, please, I—”

“Come for me, then,” Merlin grated in Harry’s ear, his brogue thick and weighted with his own excitement, arousal burring against Harry’s skin as he shuddered, pulsing over Merlin’s fist in wet streaks.

Merlin hummed, satisfied as he felt Harry lean boneless against him, his Knight breathless and sated as Merlin licked his own fingers clean before reaching for one of the cloths Harry kept handy just for such an occasion. Once the worst of the mess was gone and the cloth discarded in the direction of the hamper, Merlin leaned back against the headboard with Harry tucked against him, stroking clean fingers across the back of Harry’s neck and toying with the short hairs there.

“God, I love you,” Harry mumbled, giving a satisfied sigh.

Merlin froze, for perhaps a millisecond too long, before he replied. “You’re saying that because that’s the third orgasm I’ve given you in the past four hours.”

There was humor there, though perhaps it fell flat as Harry leaned back, sitting on Merlin’s thighs and peering down at him through lashes far too long to seem real. Far too pretty for his own good; Merlin had said so many times.

“Do you doubt the depth of my feeling for you?” Harry asked quietly.

“No,” Merlin said, reaching out and running his hands up Harry’s muscular thighs. His thumbs traced familiar routes, following freckles and a particularly nasty scar along Harry’s right thigh, obtained in Cairo on one of Harry’s first missions.

“You do,” Harry said. “I can read people, you know.”

“That’s what we do for a living, Harry,” Merlin said. “You always complain when I bring work when I visit.”

Harry huffed quietly. “That’s because you shouldn’t bring work home.”

Merlin kept tracing Harry’s thighs, falling silent at the idea that Harry considered this Merlin’s home as well. Perhaps Thomas had been right after all, and he’d become far too attached in far too short a time.

Perhaps he should end this.

“You don’t have to reciprocate the sentiment,” Harry said, after the beats of silence between them became less familiar and more uncomfortable. “You are the only one I—”

He inhaled, looking off to the side and presenting Merlin with a lovely profile of Harry’s left side, his neck below where his collars sat already purpling from a love bite Merlin had left prior.

“You are the only one I can trust,” Harry said. He glanced back down at Merlin, his hands coming to rest on the wizard’s where they sat on Harry’s thighs. “Completely.”

Merlin looked up at Harry. “Harry, I—”

Harry cut him off with a kiss, long and slow and languid, one of Harry’s specialties when he wanted Merlin boneless and pliant, his brain melted away into pleasant static. Pulling away enough that Merlin could feel the gap, he smiled against Merlin’s lips.

“Don’t worry about it, Dove.”

Merlin didn’t.

* * *

**Central – 1990**

“—and so we upended the table and left them soaking in tzatziki, while Geraint blew the doors open and we slipped out in the confusion,” Gawain said to Bedivere, chortling into the cup of water he’d been provided by one of the nurses. Merlin, fetching the last of their equipment from said assignment, refrained from rolling his eyes. He collected the discarded Tokarevs off the table in the infirmary, where the three-man crew of Bors, Geraint, and Gawain sat while Morgana checked them over for injuries. They’d come limping in less than three hours prior, beaten to hell and in good cheer.

Merlin had no idea why – their cover had nearly been blown and they’d racked up far too many casualties to call this anything but wetworks, all for a simple reconnaissance mission. All in all, word down the pipeline was that Arthur was rather livid at the three of them for their clumsy work, regardless of the information gathered – their targets were aware they were being watched now, and while all three were rather new Knights, they were also being touted as Arthur’s new favored sons, as it were.

As he boxed the discarded weapons and collected the torn remnants of Geraint’s bespoke jacket to destroy it, he realized Gawain was watching him. He tilted a glance in his direction, which seemed to be the opening the Knight had been looking for.

“But that’s how it happens, eh, Merlin?” Gawain asked. “You fall victim to a pretty face and a nice pair of tits and then it’s all over.”

“Not if you’re following how I trained you, it’s not,” Merlin said. He shrugged. “But then, you didn’t listen in NLP training either.”

Bedivere chuckled, watching Gawain’s face mottle.

“Only because you were the one teaching the courses!” he sputtered. “Why weren’t we allowed to practice with that fit bird that followed you around? It was harder to visualize getting your trousers off.”

“One, because Nimue is my assistant, and two, because you called her a ‘fit bird’,” Merlin replied. “This isn’t the sixties, and you are hardly James Bond.”

Gawain sputtered, hopping to his feet, which only aggravated his sprained ankle and wrenched knee. He sat down heavily, grunting in pain.

“You’ve never wanted a piece of—” Geraint began, but silenced himself when he caught sight of the look on Merlin’s face. Stony and full of cold rage, the younger Knight fell silent under the weight of the purely murderous gaze Merlin fixed him with.

“Didn’t you hear?” Bors said, heedless of the stare now fixed on him. “Surely he’s gay. Or a robot. Can’t decide which one’s better.”

“You’re a poof?” Gawain blurted, scowling at Merlin like so many things had fallen into place just then. “No wonder.”

There was rage there, boiling beneath the surface of Merlin’s skin. If he allowed himself, the punishment would be severe, like it always was when someone spoke above their station at Kingsman. Especially to Arthur’s new golden children.

The chance was there. It would be satisfying, for the brief moment, but—

“Come off it, Gawain. You barely know how to make your own cock work, much less someone else’s,” Harry said from where he was leaning in the doorway. Merlin startled, covering it by crouching to scoop the last of the discarded equipment into his storage bin.

Their estrangement notwithstanding, there was something satisfying about Harry saying what Merlin could not, because of his station. Satisfying and extremely irritating. But then, that was most of his interactions with Harry Hart these days.

“Speaking of fairies,” Gawain muttered. “What do you want?”

“Arthur’s sent for you three,” Harry said. There was a small hint of malice there, but only Merlin, who knew Harry far better than anyone in the room could tell how the Knight was spoiling for a fight. Like a tiger in the long grass, Harry was delivering the message out of pure spite. His tone remained the same, that same bored, cultured diffidence that so enraged Gawain, but Merlin could tell that Harry was taking great enjoyment in watching them all squirm.

“Good timing, Galahad,” Morgana said, emerging from her office. “I was just about to send them on their way. Make sure they get there, won’t you?”

She fixed a stare on Gawain.

“And make sure you use the wheelchair for the next two weeks,” she said. “Unless you want your kneecap to remain in powdered form.”

Merlin kept his smile to himself, and made his exit as Harry escorted the three newest Knights to their performance review.

* * *

**Kingsman Estate – 2016**

“Sorry, sir, but why the fuck did you choose me as the gimp? Am I the expendable candidate?” Eggsy snapped.

Merlin took a breath. He remembered being that angry, once. He remembered railing hard against established rules before he learned to dance just inside them, just enough that his tormentors realized he was far more useful as a tool than as a punching bag.

Eggsy still had yet to learn that lesson, to control that rage and hurt and despair and use it as a tool in his tool box.

Merlin would show him—if Eggsy lived that long.

He squared his shoulders, gesturing that Eggsy should come forward.

“No, no, no. You don't talk to me like that. If you have a complaint, you come here and whisper it  _in my ear_.” He leaned down, watching trepidation flit behind the defiant cast of Eggsy’s eyes as Merlin used his presence to distract while he grasped Eggsy’s cord. “You need to take that chip off your shoulder.”

As Eggsy went tumbling backwards, Merlin smirked and strode away, Roxanne following at his heels. He considered them both, directing Roxanne to her newest exercise and knowing Eggsy would catch up.

While trials in the past had been close, Merlin had only ever found himself wanting more than one candidate to clear the trials once before. Lee Unwin and James Spencer had been neck and neck for Lancelot for a good three months and eight trials before Mosul. Merlin had drawn up the proposal that one of them be offered a wholly new title, that of Mordred, before the grenade had made the decision for them.

Time would tell if Roxanne and Eggsy would take after their predecessors. Merlin found that he hoped so.

* * *

**Savile Row – 2017**

“Enter.” Merlin pushed open the door and inclined his head to the man seated in the former Arthur’s chair. Augustin Edmonds was an excellent replacement, coming out of retirement as their former Gareth to take on the mantle of spymaster. Merlin brought himself to a stop, standing at parade rest with his clipboard clasped in front of him.

Augustin took his time, signing some more paperwork in front of him before he turned his full attention to Merlin. When he did, it was with a small smile.

“How long has it been, Merlin?” he asked.

“Ah, 1994, I would reckon, sir,” Merlin replied softly. Gareth had chosen to retire when his knees would no longer support half of the strenuous exercise that a Kingsman did on a daily basis when on mission. Too many Knights devolved to alcoholism or dependence on painkillers after their time in the field that too few of them remained with the faculties to be considered for a seat on the Council. Augustin had done neither, keeping his health intact and retiring to a quiet life outside of Cardiff.

Being the most fit of the Knight’s Council to take the reins meant nearly two decades of experience on Merlin’s own forty, which meant that they should be in excellent hands.

Truly, Merlin respected Augustin, and being replaced as temporary head of Kingsman was both a blessing and a curse. He was free to do what he did best as Quartermaster—organize and rebuild—but he was no longer too tired to shut out his grief at the loss of Galahad.

Of Harry.

Even now the thought was like a creeping cloud sitting just outside his peripheral vision, the feeling that he had but to bury himself in his work and soon his wayward Knight would bustle into Central looking for him. Some nights, when he’d had little sleep and less food, it seemed more real.

Now, however, Arthur had called and Merlin answered. Thoughts of Harry were for the dead watches of the night, when he was alone.

“Yes, 1994,” Augustin replied, nodding. “Then I think you should have a seat, don’t you? Tea?”

“Ah, no thank you, sir,” Merlin said, lowering himself into one of the wingback chairs that sat before Arthur’s impressive oak desk. “You wished to see me.”

“I did,” Arthur said. He set aside his paperwork and capped his fountain pen. “I wanted to see how you were holding up. Rebuilding has not been easy.”

“No,” Merlin agreed. “We’re at eighty-five percent of where we were before V-Day. I was wondering if you’d considered my proposal—”

“The Unwin boy?” Arthur asked. “Yes, I have. I think that his actions during V-Day should serve as evidence that he belongs in Kingsman, no matter the circumstances of his birth. We’ll Knight him in a week or so. A fitting inheritor to the Galahad title.”

“Ah,” Merlin said. So used to arguing for even the barest scrap of ground with Chester, Augustin’s easy acceptance of Eggsy had thrown Merlin for a bit of a loop. “Then we’re in agreement.”

“We are,” Augustin said. “Was that your only concern?”

“For the moment,” Merlin replied. “Everything else has been accounted for, more or less.”

“Excellent,” Arthur said. “How am I doing so far? Exceeding expectations?”

There was a twinkle of good humor in his eye and Merlin smiled despite himself. He’d remembered their Gareth as a kind man, kinder than most of his peers, at least.

“I’ll take that as a yes,” Arthur continued. “I wished to talk privately with you, as it was.”

Merlin straightened. “Sir?”

“Harry Hart,” Arthur said. “Has his body been recovered?”

Merlin’s fingers drummed on his tablet in agitation. It was like a sucking chest wound, mentions of Harry all around him, memories slapping him in the face no matter which way he turned. It made it hard to breathe. He’d known that the question might have come up, but his guard was down, as tired as he was.

“No, sir,” Merlin replied. “When Kingsman operatives arrived on scene, his body was nowhere to be found. We’re presuming Richmond Valentine took his body as a sort of trophy, a triumph over Kingsman, but we’ve yet to find it.”

“His lapel tracker?” Arthur asked.

“Deactivated. We believe it was destroyed either during combat at the church or discovered and disposed of afterwards.” Merlin looked down at his knuckles. “We’re still looking. I have personnel inserted in the investigation at Kentucky.”

“Good,” Arthur said. “Comb any other known Valentine properties and convert them for Kingsman use. If they cannot be adapted, destroy them.”

“Yes, sir.”

Augustin steepled his fingers. “Have you taken any leave?”

“No, sir. There is too much to be done.”

“Merlin.”

Merlin inhaled. “Keeping busy is best.”

“Because you loved him?”

Merlin froze. He felt the blood drain from his face, leaving him paper white as he stared at the new Arthur.

“I am a spy, Merlin. Information gathering is what I do best. And it wasn’t hard to piece things together.” Augustin’s tone was mild, but the threat lurked there, beneath the surface. “As you know, relationships are forbidden within Kingsman’s walls.”

“Yes, sir.”

“However, as you two were discreet with your dalliance and I don’t believe anyone else knew of your…preferences, I am willing to overlook this. Your service to Kingsman has been impeccable and your disciplinary record, while marked, has been more a victim to Chester King’s neuroses rather than a fair reflection of your character.”

Merlin’s tongue felt thick and heavy in his mouth. He blinked, as though coming from a deep sleep, the white noise of his brain processing this on top of everything else…it was too much. He only realized Augustin had moved when a cup of hot, sweet tea was pressed into his hands. Reflexively, he sipped, feeling some of his clarity coming back with the heat on his tongue.

“Take two weeks. Get this out of your system, and refresh yourself. We’re all exhausted.” Arthur nodded at him, then rose from his half-crouch before Merlin’s chair with an effort and settled back at his desk. “And I think you will be the better for it.”

“Is that an order, sir?” Merlin asked.

“Does it have to be?” Augustin returned.

“No, sir.” Merlin inhaled. “I’ll make arrangements.”

“Good. Moving forward, there won’t be any issues?”

Merlin was in his right mind enough to understand the implication.  _Kingsman needs you and I cannot replace you – be thankful._  The question was double-edged. There would be no more dalliances.

Something in him wanted to tip over that pompous oak desk, something dark and deep in him whispered that people like Augustin would never understand the depth of what he and Harry had, in their short time together. Fighting, loving, praying,  _burning_. It was never going to be enough, and he would keep it for the rest of his days.

There was never going to be another. Harry held Merlin’s heart and his chest was hollow and empty with it. Instead of raging, he felt…empty.

He took a breath, then let it out.

“No, sir.” Merlin nodded. “If that’s all?”

“It is. Make your arrangements and take your time. Morgana will have relevant information, should you need it.”

“Yes, sir.” Merlin set his barely-touched cup of tea on the saucer provided, rising. “I’ll be going.”

* * *

**Central – 2016**

The insistent buzz of his communicator was the only thing that pulled Merlin from the black wall of grief that threatened to envelop him. He clicked the connection on, willing his voice back to normal.

“Yes, sir.”

“Merlin, assemble the Knights. We must take stock and make our next move.” Chester’s voice rolled over him, making him feel oily and unclean so soon after watching—

After—

After that.

“Yes, sir.” The silence wasn’t followed by a click from Chester’s private line, and Merlin waited.

True to form, Chester’s voice returned. “And you should know, I’m sorry for your loss.”

There was no Thomas Brampton to hold him back this time. There was no Martin Gainsborough to discover a breathing Harry Hart because he stubbornly dragged his mentor’s body home. There were no Knights that needed his immediate attention and no one who would dare stop him.

Merlin rose and collected a Rainmaker, striding from the bowels of Central to Chester’s offices at the estate. He marched through the halls, his mind a churning haze of red and the taste of pennies on his tongue. He’d bitten it hard enough to bleed, but he didn’t care in this moment.

As he took the stairs to avoid being stopped, clarity began to return.

That had been bait.

Chester was looking for a reason and Merlin was marching down there to give him one. There was only one way this would likely end—with a bullet, and likely in Merlin. He took a deep, cleansing breath, standing on the landing of the stairwell.

Ten minutes later, he found himself standing at Arthur’s door. The Rainmaker had been deposited in ~~Harry’s~~   _Galahad’s_  office for the moment, leaving Merlin unarmed save for his emergency shoe blade.

He knocked.

“Enter.” Chester didn’t seem surprised to see him. Merlin had no doubt it was a part of the plan. “Have the Knights been assembled?”

“They have, sir, waiting on your orders.”

“Good, good.” Chester studied his face for a moment. “You’re fit for continued duty?”

“You know I am,” Merlin replied. “The question is, are you?”

“What—”

“Have you no decency in your body at all?” Merlin said, his tone quiet and savage, the words bitten off with a vigor he normally reserved for trainees. “What kind of pettiness drives you, Arthur? What have you gotten from thirty-four years of bloody nonsense? I can’t even be done with it now?”

“I have no idea what you—”

“Shut up.” Merlin growled it, knowing the closed door would silence most of what he had to say. “I’ve taken this as far as it will go. Consider this my resignation when this business with Valentine is through.”

“Merlin—”

“ _Shut up_.” Merlin’s voice didn’t rise an octave, but Chester blinked as though it had. “I’m through. I lived with this, every day, in the fear that you could hurt me further, but in the end, you’re just a man and I’ve lost everything and you know for a fact that it makes me dangerous. I know about your black file missions – I wonder if the Knight’s Council does? How you use Kingsman as your personal army for your own gain rather than for the greater good.”

There was a click, and Merlin looked down at Chester’s hand, where the spymaster held a pearl-handled pistol, set with the Kingsman crest.

“Do it, then,” Merlin snarled. “Send me to Harry just that much faster.”

There was a beat of silence. Two beats. Merlin’s heartbeat thrummed in his ears, the rush of blood like the roar of a waterfall.

“No,” Chester said. “That’s what you wish to happen.”

He set the pistol aside, carefully.

“And you think you’re too smart for your own good, don’t you,” Merlin said. “I’ve made copies of all relevant information and I am holding them in an undisclosed location. If my dead man switch is triggered, they get sent to each member of the Knight Council in turn, along with the authorities. I will burn this place to the ground with you in it. Your hand on the fiddle, not mine.”

Chester’s glare was almost a physical weight, but they were interrupted by the proximity alarms going off. Their gazes snapped to the monitor on Chester’s wall, where Eggsy was on camera obtaining access to the estate grounds.

“It seems that I’ve got more on my plate than anticipated,” Chester murmured. “Return to your duties. We will finish this conversation at another time.”

Merlin felt fear for Eggsy creep into his stomach, sending it into a churn. “Arthur—”

“Enough. Go.”

Merlin was unable to stop this, he knew. He could only hope that Chester turned the boy away and didn’t harm him. There was no telling now, not when Merlin himself had whipped Chester into a frenzy.

Mentally cursing himself, he went back to his workshop to outfit Lancelot for her first run—finding and stopping Valentine.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oof. Well, that was a little harder hitting than intended. Still, a good stretching exercise to keep limber. Thank you for reading!


	21. Hedge Magic (Merlahad, Supernatural Modern Magic AU)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Either you help me, or I find mice to leave in various unsavoury places,” Harry said.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tumblr Prompt: “The answer is always blood magic.”

“So you say,” Merlin grunted, working the mortar and pestle as the cauldron setup bubbled away. “But that’s been your answer for everything.”

Small enough to be easily carried by hand, the cauldron was what he could afford, and it had worked well enough for the past two years. Set over a hob on a portable stove, it bubbled away, the liquid inside turning a bright blue as the contents shimmered.

“Well, three quarters of the time, it  _is_  blood magic,” the cat beside him on the table huffed, licking at his paw as he groomed himself. A majestic brown moggie, his parentage was in question but his bearing was not. Large and fluffy (and by hand weight Merlin had to guess almost twenty pounds), the cat spoke when it pleased him and was infuriatingly silent when it was most needed.

Merlin had initially named him ‘Stop That’, but Harry was rather vocal even then, and had informed Merlin that he was, in fact, capable of understanding him. And that he had a name. He could also apparently brew potions with the best of them, able to reach ingredients Merlin could not for whatever reason. Too many times Harry had come back with a mouthful of exactly what was needed for Merlin’s current concoction.

It was, for this reason, that Merlin decided that sharing space with Harry was easier than trying to keep him from his cheap flat. (Not that he could ever seem to do that, either. He always woke after locking down his flat with a grumpy Harry sitting on his chest and staring him in the eye.)

“And when are you going to reverse this predicament?” Harry asked, for what must have been the thousandth time. “I came to you for help, and you’ve quite abused my good graces.”

Harry was, of course, referring to his form. He was not born a cat, or so he claimed. Instead, he was a well-to-do wizard from a noble blooded family, with connections in the magical world that Merlin could only dream of – not that Merlin had ever dreamed of rising above his station of hedge wizard in this day and age.

Magic was dangerous these days, in the age of cellphone cameras and the internet. There wasn’t anything he could do if someone caught him practicing his arts upon the roof, but it was also such a part of him that he couldn’t stop. That, and magic tended to build up and backfire when repressed. He’d known other wizards lying low who’d sprouted all sorts of maladies, up to and including spontaneous combustion.

So it was a delicate balance of practice in secret, or risk sending the whole apartment building up in a puff of smoke.

“Soon,” Merlin replied, thumbing through his notes. Harry made a grumpy cat noise, hopping up on the back of Merlin’s wooden chair and pacing along the back of it. “I’ve been busy as of late.”

“Missus Thornton’s summer cold is not 'busy’,” Harry groused, putting his paws on Merlin’s shoulders and standing on his hind legs, putting all his weight on Merlin’s shoulders.

“Stop that,” Merlin mumbled.

“Or what?” Harry retorted. “You’ll lock me out again? We both know you can’t keep me out. I need you.”

“No, you thought that I would do,” Merlin replied. “Because I’m 'passable in intelligence and have thumbs’. That’s what you told me.”

Harry’s claws pricked Merlin’s shoulder through the shirt he was wearing, and he yelped.

“Either you help me, or I find mice to leave in various unsavoury places,” Harry said.

“Well, then you’ll just be earning your keep,” Merlin said.

Harry made a disgusted noise, planting himself on Merlin’s shoulder, only to leap off and onto the mantel, making sure to kick Merlin in the head on his way up.

“Petty,” Merlin said. “I’m fairly certain that you’re a cat, and just gained the ability to talk through a wizard that had a very poor sense of humor.”

“And I’m telling you, the rash of sickness around here is blood magic,” Harry replied, his eyes glowing gold in the light of the fire. “Notice how it keeps you just busy enough to keep from investigating goings on? Missus Thornton, the Bakers’ twins, the Harris toddler. Someone’s playing on your need to help the less fortunate.”

Merlin frowned. “Where’s your proof?”

“If I had bloody thumbs I could clear this up in less than an hour,” Harry snapped. “But sure, keep brewing your hedge wizard remedies. You’re treating the symptoms, not the root cause.”

“If you’re going to be nasty, you can go sulk elsewhere,” Merlin said, distracted as he dumped some yarrow into the pot, making the liquid roil into a sickly green color. When he looked up, there was no sign of the cat anywhere. Merlin sighed, but went back to his cauldron. It wasn’t that Harry was wrong – Merlin had been getting the same feeling Harry did. The problem was, he hadn’t been able to find any proof. Hopefully there would be a breakthrough soon.

Another dead mouse in his slippers was not something he was looking forward to, no matter how blase he was about it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One of these days, I'll go back and give this universe a proper revisit. It keeps cropping up in my more recent WIP writing, and I sort of want to flesh it out and give it a proper polish. Maybe in March, when I go on vacation.


	22. Clutch (Merlahad, unspecified AU)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Because of course Merlin would find a hoard.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tumblr Prompt: “How many baby dragons did you say you adopted?”

“Just the clutch,” Merlin said, humming as the silvery baby dragon darted through his fingers. Its siblings, all violently metallic shades, climbed over and around him, chasing each other across his broad shoulders and through his elegant fingers.

“How many are in a clutch?” Harry asked, exasperated because there had to be at least half a dozen, possibly more, and the dragons themselves were moving too rapidly to count.

“Anywhere from five to thirty,” Merlin said, cutting his eyes away. Harry frowned.

“How many more eggs are there.”

“They’re not done hatching.”

“How many more, Merlin?”

“…seventeen.”

Harry rubbed his face. “And how many have you named?”

Merlin’s silence was telling.

“ _Merlin_.”

“Just the one. You’ll know him when you see him.”

Harry sighed. “And you’re rehoming them?”

“As soon as they’re out of foster.” Merlin held up a hand solemnly, before reaching out to catch a ruby colored chappie that was trying to swim in his coffee mug. “They’ll go to conservationist properties.”

Harry nodded, not happy, but satisfied with the answer. “Very well.”

He leaned in to kiss his husband, only to be greeted with the hissing visage of a small golden dragon, its frills out and displaying burnished bronze fins and wings, like a coin polished by the pass of many hands. Harry jerked his head back before the tiny snapping jaws took a chunk of his nose.

“…that’s the one I named,” Merlin replied sheepishly. “Erm… _Harry_  gets possessive.”

Harry’s frown deepened considerably.


	23. Drink and be Merry (Merlahad, Supernatural AU)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You would be a terror with immortality behind you,” Harry agreed. “A shame you won’t get to unlock even a fraction of your true potential.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tumblr Prompt: “I promise you I have never once sparkled in the sunlight.”

“You seem offended,” Merlin said, sitting across from Harry. He kept his notepad in front of him, like a shield, though he knew very well that the vampire could not cross the wards set forth by Kingsman. Bound to the blood that flowed through Harry’s veins, it kept him chained in the service of Merlin until he passed away, necessitating a rebinding, or Harry himself perished. Harry could no more harm Merlin than he could an innocent, per the ancient contract drawn up by the first Merlin.

It wasn’t all that long ago that Merlin had found himself bound to the vampire, though perhaps that was looking at things from Harry’s perspective. It wasn’t a pleasant experience, by far; Harry had sneered at the young pup who spoke the rites and invoked generations of magical geasa, binding him, body and soul, to the vampire. Harry was bound to serve, until Merlin died or Harry did.

There was a third option, one that Harry did not mention – indeed Merlin didn’t think Harry knew. Merlin could, if he wished, break the contract himself. It would be the destruction of them all, but in desperate times, he could unleash Harry upon their foes…and then the rest of the world.

“Not offended, per se.” Harry shrugged, reaching for the packet of blood beside him. He slit the plastic with a sharpened thumbnail, draining it into a snifter before he sipped at it. “I’m just surprised you don’t know more about your job, or what it entails.”

A younger Merlin would have bristled. Instead, Merlin merely hummed, shrugging his shoulders. “We all don’t have the benefit of eidetic memories and centuries of experience.”

“You would be a terror with immortality behind you,” Harry agreed. “A shame you won’t get to unlock even a fraction of your true potential.”

“Are you offering?” Merlin asked, watching the cool calculation behind Harry’s brown eyes turn to something warmer. The vampire was on the hunt, regardless of the glass of blood in his hand. This was something more, a feeling that Merlin didn’t dare name that opened itself like a pit in his gut. He found himself yearning for an answer, a particular answer, from the handsome man before him. It was something he’d ignored up until now, pushed aside in favor of the job.

But now, Harry was the job and Merlin could no longer afford to ignore it.

It was a crack in his armor, a weakness that the vampire would surely use to exploit for his freedom. Pretty pale lips, moued at the corners, turned up at the question. Those brown eyes were fair to golden, the light behind them enticing and almost beautiful, despite their unholy gleam. His smile was ethereal, the sharpened fangs retracted in favor of the mask Harry wore to blend into society. Only the barest hints of red against his mouth and Merlin’s own common sense kept him from floating forward, like a moth to a flame.

Harry Hart was a pretty creature, frozen in time exactly as he was, never to age or to die.

“I’m afraid you aren’t my type, Merlin,” Harry said, his voice rolling up one end of Merlin’s nerves and then down the other.

Just like that, the spell was broken, and Merlin felt…hollow. He sat back in his chair, unaware he’d even been leaning toward Harry in anticipation of his answer. He breathed out, then nodded.

“Mm. I’ll see to it that we find someone willing to donate a couple of times a month to keep you in fighting trim.” He gave Harry a once-over, suspicion clouding his gaze once again. “Perhaps a rotating roster.”

“The bagged blood is fine,” Harry said, waving a hand. “Much better kept since the last war, it’s actually palatable now.”

Merlin gave another non-committal grunt as he rose. “I’m going to make a cup of tea.”

“Do make me one while you’re out?” Harry asked, grinning at Merlin from his chair. His fangs were present once again, delicate and sharp against his bottom lip. He pressed, ever so gently, and Merlin couldn’t help but watch the two dark beads of blood that welled up, only to be swiped away by Harry’s tongue. “You’re the only one who can make it correctly.”

Merlin didn’t answer, letting the door slam behind him on the way out. He was sweating, feeling the dampness roll down his back and against his armpits, turning cold in the forced air from the vents. He shivered, feeling that sliver of want still curling in his stomach, hunger driving him to look through the one way glass at the vampire in his cell.

Harry’s eyes were glowing golden as they met his gaze, and though Merlin was sure that Harry couldn’t see him, there was a cunning about the vampire, and he could very well make an educated guess about where Merlin was actually standing. Even here, with glass and steel between them, Merlin felt the pull of Harry’s charisma.

Harry winked at him and he startled, backing against the wall opposite.

This was bad.

He swiped a hand over his scalp, adjusted his spectacles, and hurried down the hallway.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another one of those I need to revisit one of those days. It really is a good universe, just not one I've written a lot of as of yet.


End file.
